


The Little Prince

by capn_hoozits



Series: Sons of the Desert [8]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), Original Drachman Characters, Original Ishvalan Characters, Political Asylum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 87,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10203638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capn_hoozits/pseuds/capn_hoozits
Summary: A 15-year-old Drachman boy learns a shocking secret about himself and must seek asylum in Amestris. While Major General Armstrong decides what to do with him, she sends him to the safest place she can think of outside of Briggs."Did you know?" Mitya could have sounded accusing, but he didn't. He didn't even seem to be cherishing some resentment hidden somewhere in the back of his mind. He just looked at her, and for a moment it felt like he looked right through her, as though he could see all her insecurities, all her hopes, all her ambitions. The impression disappeared immediately, but the boy's green-eyed gaze was still penetrating. He'd looked death in the face and he'd had his first kill and he hadn't enjoyed either one. It tended to change a person.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am venturing into the realm of political thriller, sort of. Not a place where I am most comfortable, but I'll give it a whirl.
> 
> As it seems to be the case, I am basing Drachma on Soviet-era Russia, but it is not meant to be an exact historical parallel.

  
_On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur. L'essential est invisible pour les yeux._

_It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye_

Antoine de Saint-Exupery _The Little Prince_  


* * *

The crack of metal against metal rang and reverberated within the expanse that stretched from one mountainside to another. Uncle Alyokha was using the grip of his revolver to pound on the massive doors of the fort. It was the only way to be heard, and being on the Drachman side, might be answered only by gunfire. Alyokha was taking the chance that they were less likely to be shot by the Briggs guards than by those who were pursuing them.

The revolver snapped where the barrel joined with the frame. Typical. It was a relic from the old regime, supposedly back when workmanship was better. At least it hadn't gone off while being used as a doorknocker. That would have been embarrassing. Mitya wasn't sure why these thoughts were going through his head. Maybe his brain could only take so much terror.

Three nights ago—it seemed like ages ago now—he had been woken and gruffly but quietly told to get dressed. With shaking hands, Uncle Alyokha had tried to hurry him along, pulling a second tattered sweater over Mitya's head before the boy had finished getting his arms through the first one. In Drachma, you dressed in layers against the cold, and Mitya only had a few changes of clothes. Alyokha was trying to get all of them on the boy. He said they couldn't carry luggage.

Mitya didn't really have any personal possessions that he cared much about anyway, but he still didn't understand why they were leaving. Alyokha had been acting a little strange lately, which was wrong in several ways. One thing you didn't want to do was anything out of the ordinary in a place where you never knew who was watching you or what they were watching for. Mitya had learned that lesson early. It wasn't one they taught in school. In school they taught you to be the watcher. You were supposed to watch your neighbors, your schoolmates, your closest friends, even your parents. Anything suspicious was to be reported and vigilance was rewarded.

Mitya no longer had parents. All he had left of them were a small photograph and his mother's _matryoshka_ , the nesting doll made of old folk tale characters. They were the only things he was able to hurriedly shove into the pocket of his coat before Uncle Alyokha laid a heavy hand on his collar and hustled him out the door.

He didn't have close friends, either. He didn't attract them. He didn't join any of the youth groups with their red neckerchiefs and their little red manifestos that they didn't even need to open to quote from. He kept his head down and let people think he was simply unambitious, sullen, and slow-witted. He would be pushing a broom at the munitions factory until he was an old man, which was about as much out of life as he wanted.

Well, probably not now. Having worked so hard to escape notice, he was now getting entirely too much attention. If he even lived to be an old man, which was becoming less and less likely, he had no idea where he'd be pushing a broom.

The distant coughing rumble of a military truck could barely be heard behind them. A bullet pinged off the vast steel wall just above Mitya's head and he ducked down into the collar of his coat as though it would afford him some protection against lead. It wouldn't. The best he could rely on was the bad aim of their pursuers and the thick snowfall. Maybe Drachmans were used to the cold; that didn't mean they had to like it. Mitya couldn't remember ever being this cold. Except for a few school trips to the supposedly state-of-the-art collective to admire the tractors, he hadn't even been out of the city during his entire fifteen years of existence.

With nothing else to use, Alyokha banged his head against the steel doors, nearly sobbing.

"For pity's sake!" he bellowed hoarsely. "Let us in!" He then cried out in another language, Amestrian, Mitya assumed.

Another bullet cracked against metal, traversing through Alyokha's muskrat fur cap on its way. Blood dripped brilliantly against the white snow and Mitya, who didn't think he could get any more scared, got more scared. He had grown so unused to acting on his own initiative that he would be utterly helpless by himself. He grabbed Alyokha's arm.

"Uncle Alyokha!" he cried, his voice cracking.

The old man turned to him, wiping blood as it dripped down his cheek. Apparently the bullet had only grazed his skull. Their plight was no less desperate and he gazed at Mitya with a look of bitter hopelessness.

"I'm sorry, Dimitri Ivanovich!" he cried over the wind. Mitya was a little taken aback by being addressed so formally. Uncle only called him Mitya or Mityukh. "I'm so—"

A deep, echoing clunk rang and rippled through the wall before them and the tight seal between the doors split open. One of the doors slid to the side, releasing a rush of warm air. Hands seized them and pulled them through the opening, not particularly gently. They were unceremoniously pushed to the floor while the steel door was pulled closed, sealing out the blizzard and the Drachman soldiers.

 _Out of the frying pan and into the fire_. Mitya squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the multiple metallic clicks of several rifles. Beyond that, there was no other sound except for their own labored breathing and the distant hum of enormous machinery. Nothing else happened for several moments and time seemed to stand still.

Finally, he heard Alyokha speak in a gasp. "Please! We need—"

"Quiet!" someone ordered.

Whoever it was spoke in Drachmani. Mitya wondered how much of the language the soldier actually knew because he didn't say anything else. It seemed as though they were not going to be shot just yet, so Mitya let himself relax. The soldiers seemed to be waiting for something, and he was perfectly happy to just lay here out of the cold.

For what was probably only a few minutes, not a word was spoken. Then, preceded by the crisp click of boots on concrete, a man's voice spoke sharply. Hands gripped Mitya's coat and hauled him to his feet. There were still rifles trained on him and on Alyokha. Mitya was spun around to face an officer, the one who must have spoken. He had a broad, clean-shaven, chiseled face, and he considered the two Drachmans with grim interest.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His Drachmani bore a fairly heavy accent but was clear enough.

Alyokha was trembling with exhaustion and under beads of sweat his face had begun to turn an unhealthy grey. "Please, sir, we need—"

"I asked for your name!" the officer said sharply.

With an effort, as though struggling to remember, Alyokha finally replied with a bob of his head. "My…my name is Alexei Afanasievich Golitsyn."

The officer jerked his chin toward Mitya. "And you?"

Mitya was about to reply, but Alyokha held up his hand. "Please, sir," he begged in a wheezing voice. "Before we go any further, I—I must tell you—we're seeking political asylum in your country."

"That's not for me to decide." The officer considered the old man for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "The general is on her way. You can talk to her."

Voices called down from above them and the officer looked up to listen. He answered back, then looked at Alyokha. "There are armed military at our back door. Care to explain that?"

"They were trying to stop us from reaching here," Alyokha replied. "We got a good enough head start, but it was a near thing. We've been planning this for months. Years, really."

The officer frowned. "Who's 'we'?"

Alyokha shook his head with sorrowful resignation. "It doesn't matter. They covered for us. By now they're either dead or worse."

Mitya glanced up at him. "Worse" meant in the hands of the secret police. If you got shot right away, you were lucky. But nothing explained why any of this had happened in the first place. Not that his life was that great, but he hadn't asked to leave it behind. And now he learned that people had likely died because of the two of them. He couldn't think of any reason why they should have gone to such lengths.

While the officer was contemplating them with furrowed, thoughtful brows, there came another set of brisk footsteps.

"Henschel!"

The officer turned and snapped his hand to his forehead in a sharp salute. The guards stiffened to attention as well, their rifles still held ready.

A woman strode into the chamber and approached them. Mitya had heard of the female commander of Briggs. He had overheard talk from the other workers at the factory, and those stories were second or third hand by that time. Most of the stories seemed outlandish.

She was not as ugly as a plow horse's back end. She did not have the aspect of a rabid bear. She didn't even have horns. She had flowing blonde hair, stunningly blue eyes, and full lips. Mitya, who made a point not to stare at anyone, found himself staring. She caught his eye with a forbidding glance and he looked away quickly.

She spoke brusquely to the officer, who replied with what seemed like an economy of words, as though he knew his commander didn't care for roundabout explanations. Alyokha, who knew Amestrian, nodded in affirmation. The general showed little reaction other than a lift of her eyebrow. She considered Alyokha for a moment, then turned to Mitya.

"You!" she said sharply in Drachmani. "Got anything to say for yourself? What's your name?" She bore little to no accent and even gave an elegant sound to it.

Mitya began to open his mouth to reply in his usual slow manner, but Alyokha drew himself up while at the same time swaying unsteadily.

"This," he announced portentously, "is the last remaining member of the royal family of Drachma! He is Dimitri Ivanovich Stoyanov!"

Mitya's mouth remained open. This was news to him.


	2. Chapter 2

They were searched, peeling off their layered clothing while rifles were trained on them. Mitya moved slowly and mechanically, his hands shaking. This was too unbelievable, too absurd. It was a horrific dream that he could not wake from. He glanced over at Uncle Alyokha, who seemed to be having even more trouble struggling out of his clothing than he was. One of the soldiers even had to help him.

The old man had to be lying! Even as he pulled another sweater over his head, Mitya's mind raced frantically. His family name was Otrepyev. It said so right on his identification papers. He was the son of Ivan and Nadezhda Otrepyev. They were just factory workers. He had a grandmother who was an actress or an opera singer or something. That was his only claim to fame, one he never made. He didn't even remember her.

One of the soldiers was holding Mitya's coat, searching through the pockets, and he pulled out the _matryoshka_ doll. He held the figurine cautiously and called it to the attention of the commanding officer. She stepped over and took the figurine, turning it around in her hands and eyeing it with mild interest. The soldier made a questioning, slightly nervous-sounding remark. What did he think it was? A bomb? Could this situation get any more absurd? Well, the Drachmans would probably think the same thing.

The general gave the soldier a dismissive look and made a curt reply. The soldier accepted whatever it was she said, but he still looked just a bit uneasy.

Then Uncle Alyokha fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Several of the soldiers rushed to him, rolling him onto his back. One of them quickly pulled at Alyokha's belt, which wasn't easy. It was on the last hole and Alyokha's girth pulled it taut. The soldier finally had to slice through it with a knife. He did the same thing to Alyokha's two remaining sweaters and his shirt, exposing the pallid flesh of his chest and stomach. By this time, Alyokha had stopped breathing. The soldier pressed his open hands against the man's chest, compressing it rhythmically. Orders were shouted back and forth, and Mitya was nearly forgotten. All he could do was helplessly watch the only person he had left in the world, someone he always thought was strong as a bear, fight a losing battle.

By the time a spectacled woman carrying a bag of medical equipment rushed to the scene, all she could do was press a stethoscope to Alyokha's chest, grimace, and shake her head. She made a short, general examination of the body and spoke briefly to the general, who looked on grimly and nodded. She gave a couple of curt commands, and after moment, a stretcher was carried over and laid on the floor. A couple of soldiers had to half lift, half roll Alyokha onto it. A blanket was thrown over him and the stretcher was lifted with some effort and carried away.

The general watched the body depart and then she looked down at the _matryoshka_ in her hand, as though suddenly remembering it was there. She then looked over at Mitya, who stood frozen to the spot, a sweater clutched in his hands, his shirt pulled partly from the waistband of his trousers. She considered him for a moment with the same sort of look most people gave him—almost. She did look slightly intrigued. She also looked a little like she had better things to do.

She turned on her heel and strode away, calling out some other order as she did so. Mitya found himself suddenly flanked by two soldiers, one of whom gave him a nudge. Mitya would have obliged, but his knees wouldn't bend and a pathetic whimper slipped through his lips before he could stop it. The soldier let out a soft snort and, slinging the strap of his rifle over his other shoulder, he gripped Mitya by the arm. He said something in a gruff but not entirely unkind voice and pulled. The soldier on his other side did the same and they led Mitya away after the departing general. He could only shuffle at first, but then was finally able to get his feet under himself.

Mitya made bold enough to twist his head to glance back in the direction Alyokha's body had been taken. If he weren't so fearful of what his own fate might be, he might have shed some tears. Alyokha wasn't really his uncle, just a close friend of his parents. They had all worked at Munitions Factory Number 18. They lived in the same apartment building. Alyokha applied for custody of Mitya after his parents had been killed in the explosion at the factory. If Mitya hadn't been in school at the time, he might have shared their fate.

As a surrogate father, Alyokha could be at times gruff, kind, or jovial. He never gave any intimation that Mitya was anything other than a simple schoolboy who worked at the munitions factory after school because his grades were not good enough to get him into a university. Lately, though, he had been acting a little strangely, nervous and jumpy. Then, just the night before, he had bundled Mitya out of their apartment and fled, driving down a maze of deserted side streets with no headlights until they reached open country. They drove for hours through the countryside, staying off roads and avoiding towns and checkpoints. Alyokha had them all marked on a map. He maintained a strained silence that Mitya didn't dare break. He assumed that they were somehow in trouble. They were wanted by the authorities. Someone had denounced them for something they may or may not have done. Maybe someone just wanted their apartment.

The outrageous announcement Alyokha made to the Amestrians was the absolute last thing Mitya ever would have imagined, and he could actually imagine quite a lot. He just never let on that he could. Yes, when he was much younger, he would imagine himself into the stories his mother would read to him, stories of daring heroes and brave maidens and magical beings. It would be a fine thing to be a prince with a magical flaming bird or a talking wolf or an army that could rise out of the sea. But that was make believe. If he actually tried to claim to be a prince, he didn't dare let his imagination conjure up what his fate might be.

* * *

The six figurines were lined up in descending size order across her desk. It was a fairly nice set. Olivier actually had one of her own, just the typical peasant girl set with their red sarafans, head scarves, and little red circles on their cheeks. This one appeared to be a collection of fairy tale characters, as far as she could tell. The first appeared to be a knight, judging by the chainmail shirt and the helmet, which had been lathed with a little point on the top. The second was a woman with flowers in her hair. The third was a man in a brocaded coat holding a zither or something. The fourth was a girl with pale skin and a blue coat trimmed with white fur. The fifth was a girl in the typical sarafan, tiny long braids painted down her back and an even tinier rag doll in her hands. The smallest figure, the only solid one, was just an unremarkable peasant boy.

Private Russell thought it might be a bomb. She had to admit, it wasn't impossible. Get a couple of spies into the fort, beg for asylum, claim some ludicrous story to catch them off guard, and blammo. The old fellow keeling over dead from a heart attack was an awfully good distraction, but probably not part of the plan. After thoughtfully turning the doll around in her hands, Oliver finally decided screw it and took it apart. Nothing went blammo.

The kid…well, if this was what the erstwhile royal family had trickled down to, it was destined for utter obscurity. His papers identified him as Dmitri Ivanovich Otrepyev. Although he looked like he could pass for twelve or thirteen, he was fifteen years old. Until just recently he attended High School Number 8 in Drachma's capitol city. Aside from the doll and the papers, his voluminous coat had given up only a photograph of two people, a man and a woman, similarly dressed in basic worker's clothing. Judging by the shape of the man's eyes and nose, these were probably the kid's parents and they were probably deceased, since the kid was supposed to be the last of his line. Whether it was a royal line had yet to be confirmed.

The last fifteen-year-old kid who showed up on her doorstep was a runt as well, but he at least had some fighting spirit. He also turned out to be an extremely remarkable young man. The frightened rabbit sitting before her now was one of the most unprepossessing specimens she'd come across in a while. He was pasty-faced with a scattering a freckles across his nose, and his unkempt thatch of hair was a brownish red. When she first laid eyes on him, he appeared to have a bit more bulk, but once he got that collection of sweaters and shirts off him, he turned out to be pretty damn scrawny. Unless the Drachmans had started recruiting children for espionage (which was possible), and unless he was a very, _very_ good spy and was still waiting for his opportunity to make his move (which was also possible), he was simply not a threat. What, then, was he?

"So," Olivier pronounced finally. The kid, who had been staring at the figurines on the desk, jumped in his seat. "Mr. Otrepyev. Tell me why you're here."

The kid still had a brown knitted sweater clutched in his hands and his fingers dug into it. He seemed to be considering her question. She had spoken in Drachmani, so she didn't see why he had to think so long.

"Well?" she prompted him sharply.

He gave another flinch. "I…I don't…know why…uh…" His mouth seemed to be silently trying to form a variety of consonants, probably because he was unsure how to address her.

"General will do," she helped him then added, "Not Comrade General. I am not, at the moment, your comrade. If we can establish your true purpose for coming here, I'll think about it."

She did not mean this to sound comforting and he didn't take it as such. She needed him on edge. She laid the tip of her finger on the top of the first wooden figurine. "Why do you have this?" she asked. She didn't actually care. She was partly just making time, but she was also trying to get into the boy's head just a little. A more thorough interrogation could come later.

The boy gazed at the figurines. Somewhere in his green eyes an emotion other than fear was sparked. It was a kind of longing. Olivier lifted an eyebrow while she waited.

"It…was my mother's," the boy murmured. If not for the fact that the room was so deadly quiet she could practically hear the kid sweat, she might not have heard him.

Well, wasn't that sweet. Olivier had a collection of knick-knacks that her mother insisted on sending her for her birthday. They were stored out of sight. Some of them were still in the boxes they had been mailed in. On the other hand, she had a little carved wooden bird that Shua had given her. It sat at her bedside. She almost smiled thinking about it, then made a quick frown. That rascally scarecrow had a tendency to distract her even when he was hundreds of miles away.

A knock at the door nearly drew a sigh of relief from the general. "Come!"

The door opened and a man in somewhat rumpled civilian clothing, a couple days' growth of stubble on his chin and a book and a thick file folder under his arm, came into the room. He closed the door and gave a salute.

"Pardon my lack of being spiffed up, sir," he said with a little half grin. "I just woke up to Henschel's cherubic features and I was too transfixed. Also, I had to gather up my notes," he added, patting the book and the file under his arm.

Olivier waved away the remark. The man was employed by the military, and he held a rank of captain, but he was not a regular soldier. Considering his line of work and how well he did it, he deserved all the slack she could cut him. "Sorry to have disturbed you, Cooper, but we need your particular expertise."

"Ah, yes! His Sovereign Majesty, Monarch and Emperor of all of Drachma!" Cooper made a melodramatic flourish with his hand and dropped down into a bow in Dmitri's direction. The kid just gave Cooper a sidelong look. He seemed to be trying to keep any reaction from showing, but there was a dread in his eyes that he couldn't quite hide.

"That's in poor taste, Agent Cooper," Olivier said mildly. "You're on duty at the moment."

Cooper tousled the kid's hair. The kid hunkered down a little, as though being touched made him uncomfortable but he was trying to hide that, too. If he was a spy, he was the worst one she'd ever come across. Either that, or he was a master.

"My apologies, sir!" Cooper replied. In Drachmani he added, "Sorry, kid."

Dmitri's eyes flicked up then down. Still scared. Maybe a little resigned.

"What can you tell me, Cooper?" Olivier asked.

"Yes, sir. Regarding the questions that Henschel passed on, yes, there is a movement in Drachma to restore the monarchy. Its proponents have proven surprisingly illusive, even for us. Which is a blow to my professional ego, I might add."

Olivier nodded. Cooper was, hands down, her best spy. "And the other question? Or was your flippant remark about our friend here as good as an answer to that?"

Cooper gave a smirk. "Well, maybe. Let me start with a little background." He pulled the book and the file out from under his arm, and then he paused as the nesting doll figurines caught his attention. His eyebrows lifted. "Hey! That's a nice set! Looks vintage."

"Yes, it's lovely. Can we continue?"

"Sir!" Cooper opened the book, which had the title _Drachma Under the Old Regime_ along its spine in worn gold and laid it open in front of the general. On the right side was a portrait of a man, roughly thirty, in a military jacket stiff with medals, braid, and ribbons. His hair was slicked back and he had a neatly trimmed beard. He gazed imperiously into the distance. On the facing page was a woman, roughly the same age, also gazing off into the distance. She was absolutely dripping with jewels and pearls, and she wore a tiara on her carefully coiffed hair.

"The last King and Queen of Drachma, their royal et cetera et ceteras," Cooper pronounced. "Mikhail Alexeyevich Stoyanov and the missus, Katerina. His reign came to an abrupt end in the summer of 1884 after an eight month civil conflict. Revolutionary forces stormed the palace, overpowered what was left of the Imperial militia, and the royal family was taken prisoner. After some debate as to what should be done, it was decided that they should just be eliminated. Now, sir, if you'll turn the page."

Olivier turned the page. "I know all of this, Cooper. What I want to know is this kid's connection."

Cooper raised a finger. "Building up to that, sir. Take a look at the rogues' gallery there before you."

Olivier looked down at the two facing pages. There was a series of smaller portraits of people of varying ages, some painted, some photographs, arranged as a family tree. "This is the rest of the royal family," she said. She waved her hand at the book. "They were all killed."

"Eventually, yes," Cooper replied. "Not a nice story. They were basically hunted down. Except…" He leaned over and tapped one portrait in the lower right hand corner of the second page. "For him."

Olivier frowned at the caption underneath the small picture of a young man with a thin mustache. He wore a regular suit rather than a military uniform. The caption read _Pavel Pavlovich Stoyanov_.

"That," Cooper said before Olivier asked, "was the youngest nephew of King Mikhail. Hung out with the artsy crowd, drank a bit too much, a louche sort of character. Rather an embarrassment to the family, especially when he married..."

Cooper snatched away the book and replaced it with the file folder. He opened it up to reveal a sepia tone photograph of a very sophisticated-looking young woman giving the camera a solemn yet sultry look. "…her!" he concluded. "Sophia Shalyapina. Sometimes she was just called Shalyapina. She was an actress and singer, and she was quite popular."

"Popular or not," Olivier mused, going through some of the other photographs and papers, "I take it the royal family didn't approve."

"On the button!" Cooper replied. "The marriage was declared morganatic and young Pasha was disinherited entirely. They had a son in the early 1880's, I believe. Just a couple of years later, all hell broke loose, and all of Pavel's family was wiped out."

"But as you said, except for him."

"Because Pavel was already dead by that time. Alcohol poisoning. No great loss to the world, apparently. Shalyapina remarried some older guy and she continued with her career, switching from the old guard to the new one pretty much without a hitch." Cooper flipped through the contents of the file until he came to an aging newspaper clipping. "See, that's her with the Drachman premier of the time, old Kurochkin, one of her biggest fans. My predecessor, Riley, was the one who collected all this, being rather a fan of hers as well. He even had some old gramophone recordings of her singing, if you'd like to hear them."

"No, thanks." Olivier considered the yellowing paper. Shalyapina was dressed in some sort of exotic costume and she was holding a large bouquet of flowers, probably just presented to her by a portly gentleman with a face rather like a potato. Looking closer, Olivier frowned. The photograph had also captured the moment when the man was handing Shalyapina something else. They were both holding it between them and beaming at one another. Well, she was beaming, he was leering. Olivier quickly opened a lower drawer in her desk and took out a magnifying glass. She held it over the photograph.

"Cooper, take a look at this!"

The spy bent down and squinted at the enlarged image, then he looked up at the nesting doll figurines. He picked up the largest one, the knight, and held it next to the photograph.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he murmured. He turned the figurine upside down. There was a name painted in delicate lines on the bottom along with the year 1887. "Mamontov," he read. "A big name in folk crafts like this. I mean, look at that detail!" Cooper looked up at Dmitri, who was watching them guardedly. "This is yours?" he asked in Drachmani.

"He said it was his mother's," Olivier answered for the boy.

"Huh." Cooper set the figurine down. "Where did your mother get this?" he asked Dmitri.

Dmitri glanced at the figurines. "My father gave it to her."

"And where did he get it?"

The kid gave a little roll of his shoulders. "I don't know. We just always had it."

Olivier waved her hand impatiently. "Let's get back to the main issue. You said this actress had a son by her first husband, the king's nephew, right? Whatever happened to him?"

"I don't have much information on him. His stepfather's name was Grigory Otrepyev, that much I know, and the old man adopted him, Stoyanov being a dicey sort of name to have at the time. Otrepyev passed away in 1897 or '98."

"How about our actress? Is she still alive?" Olivier asked.

"No, sir. Remember that influenza epidemic in '16?"

Olivier nodded and couldn't help a little smirk. "I do. I came down with it myself." She also picked up a touch of Ishvalan fever, so to speak, that she hadn't gotten over yet.

"It was bad here, but it was worse in Drachma. Shalyapina was one of the hundreds who died of it." Cooper dug out a clipping from a Drachman newspaper. "Here's her obituary."

Olivier scanned the short article. "I notice it doesn't mention her first marriage."

"No," Cooper said, peering over her shoulder at the clipping. "Not too surprising. Probably an episode of her life that the government wanted everybody to forget. It does mention how she was survived by her son, Ivan, which is about as common a name as you can find." He pointed to Dmitri's identification papers. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

Cooper picked up the paper and unfolded it. He nodded. "Yup. The kid's father is—or was, I guess—Ivan Grigoryevich Otrepyev. Well, sir," he said, handing back the paper. "This all seems fairly straightforward. Pavel Pavlovich may have just been a smudge in the annals of history, but disowned or not, our young friend here seems to be the last of the Stoyanov line. And that," Cooper concluded, "makes him perfect fodder for the Monarchist movement that has been struggling to stay one step ahead of the Drachman government. Until now."

"Hm." Olivier frowned thoughtfully at the top of her desk. "Considering how they managed to remain undetected until now, someone must have really screwed up."

"Uh-huh," Cooper agreed. "My guess is that they were nowhere near ready to make a move, but their hand was forced and they had to get the kid to safety. "

"And your professional ego aside, you weren't aware of any of this?" Oliver lifted an eyebrow at her agent.

"I was getting close, sir," Cooper insisted. "I could tell something was going down and it was going to be big. Even the shadows were starting to get sticky and I had to pull out." He shrugged. "I'm not a coward, sir, but I won't risk being compromised, and I'm not ready to bite the capsule just yet."

"And I'd hate to lose you," Olivier replied. She offered him a slender, grim smile. "No, you did all right, Cooper." She rose from her chair and considered the boy slouched in the chair before her desk. "I'm not quite sure about this, but our young friend here may yet have some potential."


	3. Chapter 3

He'd been fed, although his stomach was still roiling and he couldn't eat much. He'd been given a bed and blankets, but he couldn't sleep. He was locked in a cell. General Armstrong told him that it was as much for his own safety as for the security of the fort, but he did not feel safe. Lying alone in the semi-darkness, all he could think of were the rumors that trickled down to the floor of the munitions factory about the atrocities committed by the Amestrians. As with most rumors, they were probably started by the government and Mitya automatically, if privately, considered them suspect.

There were even darker speculations concerning the Amestrians' human weapons, the alchemists. Mitya considered these stories to be outlandish, but what had happened to him so far in a very short space of time was so grotesquely outlandish that he was prepared to believe almost anything at this point.

Did Papa even know? Did his mother never tell him? Maybe she never wanted him to know. How did you keep a secret like that? It was clear enough that any connection to the royal family could be not only embarrassing, but dangerous. All Mitya knew about them was what he had learned in school, how they were purported to be greedy and licentious, how the king was a despot who viewed his people as worthless slaves. On the other hand, there were a few old _babushki_ who remembered the old days fondly, if only in rare whispers. Sometimes they remarked that things hadn't changed much, other than the police wearing stars instead of eagles.

Mitya rolled over in the hard bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He had gone from comfortable anonymity to a dreaded notoriety. He was a thing that needed to be dealt with, a problem, a liability. He saw no possibility of going back to his old life, and whatever his new life held was dark to him. And he was utterly alone.

Well, nearly. Suprisingly, the general had given him back his _matryoshka_. She and that man she was talking to had taken a great interest in it. It now sat next to his pillow, propped against the wall. He took it and pulled it under the blankets, holding it against his chest. As he did so often when he was little, and even as he had grown older, he envisioned the characters not simply as painted wood, but as flesh and blood people. They would be his companions, unseen by anyone else. They could not, of course, intervene when bad things happened, but they were sometimes the only consolation he had. He wasn't little anymore, but now these characters were the only piece of familiarity he had left…the only family he had left. He closed his eyes and pictured them again, one by one.

Dobrynya Nikitich. A great warrior and noble hero, broad-shouldered, clad in chainmail, his sword and shield held ready.

Vesna Krasna. Spring Beauty. Bringer of warmth and color to counter the cold left by Grandfather Frost.

Sadko. Adventurer, merchant, and minstrel. He charmed even the king of the sea with his gusli playing.

Snegourochka. The Snow Maiden, the magical daughter of Grandfather Frost, doomed to melt away if she came to know love.

Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. Vasilisa the Beautiful. A brave and wise maiden who, with the help of her magic doll, found favor even with the old witch Baba Yaga.

And finally, the innermost figure, little Ivan Durak. Ivan the Simple, Ivan the Fool. Mitya felt a particular companionship to this character, who was often dismissed and overlooked, something Mitya preferred to be. Deep down, though, he wished he could have half as much of Ivan's simple courage because now he was going to need it.

He must have finally nodded off, because he was woken abruptly from a sound sleep by someone shaking his shoulders.

" _Vstavai, molodets_!"

Mitya's eyes flew open. Was this Drachma? Had he been dreaming after all? He looked up at the face bending over him and recognized the man from the general's office. No, he was still in Amestris, although the man spoke Drachmani like he was born to it. The man's name, he believed, was Cooper. He had been able to glean that much from the conversation with the general.

"You're here to ask for asylum, right?" Cooper said with deliberate care.

Mitya blinked sleepily at him. "What?"

Cooper rolled his eyes. "A-sy-lum! You know what that means, don't you?"

"Yes," Mitya mumbled.

"Well, that's good!" Cooper sat down on the opposite bunk and leaned forward. "I have to make this quick. Do you fear persecution in your native country?"

Mitya looked at him blankly. Cooper let out a sigh and scratched his head out of exasperation. "Come on, kid! Who doesn't fear persecution? It's a bad thing, right?"

"Uh…Yes…I suppose so."

"Good! Do you feel that you would be persecuted on account of race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or social group?" Cooper rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see. Let's go for the social group angle, the royal family, that is. Maybe political opinion, too. How does that sound?"

"I don't know."

"Look, kid, just work with me, all right?" Cooper pleaded. "Since we've established the first two, I think we can safely say that you feel that it is the Drachman government who is involved in this persecution. So that's our three requirements right there!" He clapped his hands together. "Good! That's settled!"

"But…I…"

"Listen, Your Highness!" Cooper said with brusque impatience. "We've got some visitors from Drachma who want to talk to you. They want to take you back. These were the same fellows who were shooting at you when you came here, by the way, so if I were you, I'd tell them that you'd rather stay here."

Mitya sat up and considered this for a moment. He wasn't used to being offered a choice. "What will happen to me if I stay?"

Cooper shrugged. "We'll figure something out," he said, perhaps evasively. He jerked his thumb toward the open cell door. "Let's go."

Mitya stood up. Without the blankets it was cold and he reached for the sweater that he'd laid on the bed the night before. Or was it still night? He had no idea. He pulled on the sweater and then bent down to pull on his boots. He stood up to join the man as he waited by the door. Cooper gave him a critical look, then reached out and quickly pushed his fingers through Mitya's hair in a rough combing. He considered his handiwork a little dismally. Then he fixed Mitya with his gaze.

"Don't let those guys bully you, kid."

Mitya was well acquainted with bullies. There were several at school. He did not stand up to them well so he avoided them whenever possible. He didn't have that option this time. Mitya followed the man back up the elevator and through the maze of chilly grey corridors they had passed through before, finally stopping at one of the many identical doors along one corridor. The man knocked, and hearing a voice from inside, he opened the door and steered Mitya inside.

In the room were the general, two of her soldiers, and two men seated at a table. One was in a greatcoat over a dark suit. The other had a military uniform under his coat. Two fur hats sat on the table beside two china cups. Neither man looked happy.

Every head turned toward Mitya as he entered the room, and he paused, looking down at the floor.

"Now, gentlemen," Mitya heard the general say in an uncompromising tone. "I would like you to bear in mind that I'm doing this strictly out of courtesy. Mr. Otrepyev has already been offered asylum. Isn't that correct, Agent Cooper?"

"Yes, sir!" Cooper replied.

That sounded pretty shaky to Mitya, but he kept that notion to himself.

"Now, Mr. Otrepyev." The general gestured toward the man in the uniform. "Colonel Pushkin here has something he'd like to ask you."

Colonel Pushkin considered Mitya severely from under a pair of thick, dark brows. "Dmitri!" He cleared his throat and his teeth gleamed through his beard in what was meant to be a reassuring smile. It fell short. "Mityushka! We have come to take you home!" He spoke as though talking to someone who was mentally challenged. "Wouldn't you like that? To be back home with your friends?"

Was that the question he was meant to answer? Even if he had friends, it was unlikely that he would see them again. If he returned to Drachma, he would probably be placed in one of the many "children's homes," orphanages set up to house children who had lost their parents to disease, starvation, imprisonment, or execution. It would be a harsh life, and in a few years' time he would probably be sent into the army. It was a bleak outlook but not necessarily the worst thing that could happen to him. The Amestrians wanted him to stay, perhaps for no other reason than to strike a blow against the Drachmans. Other than that, he couldn't think what they would want with him. If they had other reasons that were meant to benefit him, wouldn't they have told him?

"You must remember, gentlemen," General Armstrong said, "that it was Mr. Golitsyn's wish, as Dmitri's legal guardian, for them both to be granted asylum by the Amestrian government. He died on Amestrian soil, and as an Amestrian officer, I am duty-bound to honor his wishes."

The other man, the one in the suit, spoke up. He had a cold, lean face and pale blue eyes. "It is questionable whether Comrade Golitsyn's claim of guardianship was obtained by entirely legal means. He may have bribed certain officials."

General Armstrong picked up Mitya's identification papers. "This looks pretty straight to me, Commissar Shchelkalov. So unless you can actually prove otherwise, I'll stick to what's here in black and white."

Shchelkalov waved his hand. "It makes no difference. The boy's custody falls to the state."

"The state was trying to kill him!" the general countered.

Shchelkalov bristled. "It was Golitsyn my men were firing at!" he snapped back, thumping his fist on the table and rattling the teacups. "He proved himself to be an enemy of the state!" He thrust a finger at Mitya. "He as good as kidnapped this boy! He was leading him down the path of treason for his own grasping ends, filling the boy's head full of lies and false promises!"

Up to this point, Mitya merely stood by while these adults argued about his fate. But what that man just said sparked something in Mitya's mind. It rang false. It stirred a latent sense of injustice, enough to awaken a recklessness that Mitya wasn't aware he possessed. Perhaps he was a bit more like Ivan Durak than he ever imagined.

"No he didn't."

Every head in the room swiveled toward him. The two Drachmans stared at him as though it never occurred to them that he could even speak. The general looked surprised as well. Mitya was more surprised than any of them. But the hint of a smile on the general's lips and the faint grin that Cooper was hiding under his hand were strangely encouraging.

"He didn't fill my head with anything," Mitya went on. "You just made that up."

Shchelkalov gripped the colonel's arm to silence him. He regarded Mitya with a chilly look. "Whatever it was that Golitsyn told you, it was—"

"He didn't tell me anything!" Mitya insisted. What was is that they _thought_ Alyokha had told him? Were they already aware of what Mitya had only just discovered? Had they been watching him all this time? Alyokha had spoken of others who had "covered" for them while they fled, at the cost of their own lives! Why were these men so anxious to reclaim a nobody like him, unless he was, in fact, not a nobody at all? Suddenly, a future in a children's home seemed overly optimistic.

His heart pounded in his chest with a terrible exhilaration. He looked toward General Armstrong and opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. He swallowed. This was hardly the time to be fanciful, but in a moment of ridiculous desperation, he pictured his imaginary companions, grouped behind the general, all of them gazing at him expectantly. What would happen to them if he were lost?

Mitya took a deep breath. "I want to stay in Amestris."

* * *

Olivier dropped into the chair behind her desk. As she pulled her mug of coffee toward her, she smiled grimly to herself. She wasn't sure where the boy found his sudden resolve, but it sure shook the place up. Colonel Pushkin sputtered like an old car. Shchelkalov's face grew so red it nearly glowed. They were sent packing with brisk courtesy. Their claims of this not being over were merely smiled at, but it was clear that they would be making pests of themselves. That was the annoying part. Patrols were doubled and ordered to take potshots at anything that moved.

Once the Drachmans got back to their capitol, they would most likely go over her head. Olivier would have to get there first.

She picked up the telephone and put a call through to Central. After a few sips of coffee, she was connected to Fuhrer Grumman's office.

"General!" the old man exclaimed with a chuckle. "I don't usually hear from you! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Olivier grimaced. _Old fart!_ "This is business, Excellency, not pleasure. You may be getting a call from the Drachman premier or one of his dogsbodies."

Grumman groaned. "Why? What have you done now?"

"I have granted asylum to a Drachman citizen," Olivier replied, adding, "Provisionally."

"Oh, have you? And you need me to back you up, is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I suppose it's another feather in our national cap," Grumman reasoned. "Hooray for our side and snubs to bad old Drachma!"

Olivier rolled her eyes. "So, may I count on your support, Excellency?"

"Yes, yes, of course. So who is the lucky fellow? Someone important? Someone whose brains we can pick?"

"He could be very important indeed, sir," Olivier replied. "But not as far as usable intel."

"Oh, dear. A charity case?"

"The young gentleman I have in my custody is purported to be the sole surviving member of the Stoyanov dynasty," Olivier explained.

She could hear Grumman's chair rattle as he sat up straight. "Seriously? Sounds like a hot potato you've got on your hands there! Are you sure he's the real deal?"

"I have to admit, sir, that I had some doubts. I still do. But the Drachmans wanted him back rather badly, which makes me suspicious. It could confirm that he's exactly who he's supposed to be, or this is a very elaborate scheme of the Drachmans to put a wolf in our fold."

"Hm. That's stretching it a little, isn't it?"

"Probably," Olivier admitted. "Our subject is hardly master spy material. He's a fifteen-year-old kid."

"You're joking!"

"Hardly, sir. I don't think this is funny at all."

"No, no, of course not. But I suppose he's got to be pretty resourceful to have gotten to Briggs on his own."

"He wasn't on his own," Olivier said. "He was brought here by the man who is—was—his legal guardian, who fell over dead from a heart attack not long after he got here."

"Poor sap."

"Yes, well, this plan was apparently his idea, along with his co-conspirators in a movement to restore the Drachman monarchy. My agent believes that they were discovered and they had to get the kid out of there."

"And now he's on your hands."

Olivier sighed. "And now he's on my hands," she echoed. She drummed her fingers. "The thing is, he may not be entirely without use."

"Ah…" Grumman sounded intrigued. "Meaning he might do as a wolf in the Drachman fold?"

"Well, not exactly. It's only a germ of an idea just yet, sir, and it's much too soon to make a move. But his time may yet come. Meanwhile," Olivier went on, "I need to stash him somewhere other than here so the Drachmans will give up and go home."

"Don't send him here!" Grumman said quickly. "I don't even babysit my great-granddaughter. She's lovely, by the way, thank you for asking."

Olivier groaned inwardly. "Yes, sir, I'm sure. No, with all due respect, sir, I don't think Central is quite secure enough for my peace of mind. As it happens, I'm going down to Ishval in a few days." Her lips curled in a smile. "There are a couple of scary bastards there who will keep a careful watch on our young friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are representations of the characters in Mitya's matryoshka [here](http://sons-of-the-desert-fma.tumblr.com/post/77144354229/as-he-did-so-often-when-he-was-little-and-even-as)
> 
>  _vstavai molodets_ = get up, kid


	4. Chapter 4

He stayed at Fort Briggs for only a couple of days. He was given an actual room rather than a cell, but there was a guard outside his door so it hardly mattered. He left the fort briefly, under guard (for his own protection), to see Uncle Alyokha buried in a cemetery outside of a city that they did not enter. As soon as a few words were spoken over the plain pine casket, Mitya was taken back to the fort. As they drove back, his eyes misted over, but he kept his head down so no one could see. Apart from this brief outing, he wasn't offered anything to do and he wasn't allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied. He contented himself by staying in his room. He slept a little better, but he had nightmares of being dragged from his bed by assailants who were too murky to identify. They could have been Drachmans but they could have just as easily been Amestrians.

General Armstrong dropped in a couple of times, once to inform him that his request for asylum had been officially accepted. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved. For all he knew, he could still end up in some sort of orphanage. It also occurred to him that he might be used for some sort of anti-Drachman propaganda campaign because he honestly couldn't see that he was of any sort of value otherwise. The idea of being paraded in front of audiences, lauded as something grand, perhaps even forced to denounce his former country, was not a happy prospect. He finally gave up trying to speculate on what might happen next.

The second time General Armstrong came to his room, she informed him that he was being transported, a somewhat dubious choice of words. She was a soldier, after all, but it made him sound like a criminal. He was given a canvas bag and was told to pack up his belongings. The clothes he had come in had been washed but were in need of repair. One of their neighbors back in their apartment building, an old woman, had mended his clothes and darned his socks. She was usually pretty sullen about it, but as he folded up his meager collection, he came across the patches she had applied to his shirts and the knees of a pair of his pants, and he found himself almost missing her. He sighed. For all he knew, she was the one who had reported them.

He carefully wrapped his _matryoshka_ in one of his shirts and packed it into the bag. A soldier finally came to collect him, and he was escorted through yet another maze of corridors. They came to an elevator where General Armstrong was waiting for him. She pressed a button to summon the elevator and when the doors slid open, they stepped inside. The dial above the door indicated that they were going down.

Mitya noted with some curiosity that the general was carrying a large suitcase. She was apparently travelling somewhere, but was it with him? She always seemed to maintain a forbidding aspect and Mitya seldom, if ever, initiated conversations with anyone. The questions he had concerning where he was going and what would happen when he got there would be answered eventually, and he wasn't sure that knowing ahead of time would give him any piece of mind.

The elevator stopped and they stepped out, heading toward the end of a corridor. One of the other officers, Henschel, as Mitya recalled, saluted as the general approached. They exchanged a few words, and Henschel opened the door. A gust of chilly air blew in, and General Armstrong stepped outside onto the snow-covered ground. A large black car stood waiting, and a soldier opened the back door. Another soldier took the general's suitcase and put it into the car's trunk. He held his hand out to Mitya, presumably to take his small bag, but Mitya was reluctant to part with it, so he shook his head.

The general gestured toward the open door of the car. "Go on in," she told him.

Mitya climbed into the back seat. The general got in beside him and the driver started up the engine. They drove off on the snow-dusted road that led away from the fort. Mitya turned to look out through the back window. The massive fort took a long time to shrink as they drove away. He turned around and gazed down at the bag on his lap.

They had travelled for perhaps a quarter of an hour before General Armstrong broke the silence.

"We're going to Ishval."

Mitya, whose mind had begun to wander, gave a flinch. Ishval? All he knew of that name was a brief mention in his history class. It was a region that had been forcibly annexed by the Amestrians in a move of grasping imperialism. The people there were subjugated, oppressed, and finally annihilated. The region was left a wasteland. What possible reason could the general have for taking him there? His surprise must have been evident in his face, because the general spoke again.

"I have family there," she went on. "You'll be safe for the time being."

That still didn't really answer his question, and she didn't elaborate any further, except to add, "I expect you to behave yourself."

They eventually came to a city. They drove past a number of buildings that had a green flag waving in the breeze above them. The white dragon-thing represented on these flags was often a subject of political cartoons where the creature was either gobbling up land or was being slain by some courageous Drachman dressed like a knight of old. Mitya had actually liked those, being reminiscent of his hero, Dobrynya Nikitich, who had once slain a three-headed dragon. A dragon with one head and only two legs wouldn't have been much of a challenge.

The car came to a stop at a train station and the driver got out and opened the door. Mitya followed the general out of the car and waited as her suitcase was retrieved from the trunk. The soldier saluted, said a few words of parting, probably, which the general returned. With a nod toward Mitya, she headed toward the platform. After boarding one of the cars, General Armstrong slung her suitcase onto an overhead rack and then held her hand out for Mitya's bag. He shook his head and she shrugged, sitting down on one of the bench seats. He sat down across from her and gazed out the window. A light snow was just beginning to fall. The city, the train station, and particularly the snow weren't really much different than anything he'd see in Drachma, apart from the language being spoken and the writing everywhere. Mitya sat back. He wasn't sure if he was hungry or if it was just the vague but constant knot of anxiety in his stomach that he was becoming accustomed to.

A man in a green uniform stopped at their seats and General Armstrong held out two tickets. The man punched a hole in each of them and handed them back. He smiled and spoke briefly and the general made a short reply. The man moved on and the general settled back against her seat and closed her eyes.

"It's going to be a long trip," was all she said.

She wasn't joking. Mitya had been on a train only twice in his life, when he was small, and only for short trips. He could retreat fairly well into his own mind, but soon, even he got bored. After several moments of summoning up enough courage, he spoke.

"What is Ishval like?" He figured it was safe to not get too specific.

The general didn't even open her eyes. "It's hot." One of her eyebrows lifted slightly and she added, "Well, not so much now, being early spring. But it'll get plenty hot later."

Mitya wondered just how long he'd be there, since his stay was apparently "for the time being."

The general opened one eye and considered him. "You don't say much, do you?"

Her tone did not seem to encourage conversation, and her question sounded rhetorical. Mitya shook his head. The general closed her eyes again. "Well, at least you're not a chatterbox. I know enough of those." She said this with a hint of a smile, as though the chatterboxes of her acquaintance were people she might actually like.

A woman came by with a cart of sandwiches, and the general bought a couple, handing one to Mitya. It was chicken and it was a little dry but good. After a time, Mitya dozed off, although the seats were not very comfortable. He woke up a few times, and each time the surrounding land seemed to get just a little greener. The train stopped a few times, passengers left and others got on, and they continued on their way. Eventually, after it had grown dark, they drew into a station and the general stood up, reaching up for her bag.

"We'll be staying here for the night," she informed Mitya. "We have to catch an early train for Central."

He followed her off the train and had to walk briskly to keep up with her. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. They left the station and walked for about two blocks. A clock tower showed the time to be nearly ten, and the streets were quiet. After a few more minutes of walking, the general stopped at a set of steps and climbed them. She opened the door at the top and held it open for Mitya. They stepped into a warm lobby and the general headed straight for a counter across from the door. A plump woman smiled and greeted her as if she knew her. They spoke for a few moments, and the woman glanced at Mitya with a smile. She then reached behind her to a rack of keys and handed two of them to the general. The general spoke a bit more and the woman nodded. The general then led the way up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. She handed one of the keys to Mitya and pointed to a door.

"That's your room," she said. She pointed to another door at the end of the hallway. "That's the bathroom. Other than this room and that room, you don't go anywhere else because I will find you. Understand?"

Mitya nodded. Where would he go, anyway?

"The landlady is going to send up some food in a few minutes," General Armstrong went on. "Then you'd better get some sleep. Go on in."

Mitya unlocked his door and went inside his room, which was dark. He felt for a light switch and turned it on. It wasn't a big room, and the general did not seem the type who went in for luxury, but this room was pretty lavish compared to what Mitya was used to. He went over to the bed and sat down on it. It squeaked a little, but it seemed very comfortable.

There were some footsteps outside in the hall, and a few moments later there was a knock on his door.

"It's me," he heard the general say.

Mitya got up and opened the door and the general handed him a tray of food. There was a bowl of stew, a plate with a couple of pieces of dark bread, and a glass of milk. The stew smelled delicious and Mitya realized that he was actually hungry. The general left him to his dinner, which he ate sitting on his bed. Then, after visiting the bathroom and returning straight to his room, he went to bed and had the first really sound sleep he'd had for some time.

The general woke him early the next morning, before the sun was even up, by knocking sharply on his door. "We're leaving in half an hour," she told him.

He got dressed and was ready well before the general came to get him. They walked back to the station where the general bought a couple of cups of tea and a couple of crusty rolls at a food stall. They hadn't quite finished by the time the train pulled in, and the general hustled him on board.

This trip was much shorter than the other, only about an hour. The station that they pulled into this time was enormous. When they got off the train, they stepped into a great bustling crowd. The incomprehensible babbling echoed off the glass roof. Mitya kept as close as he could to the general without stepping on her heels. He was terrified of getting lost in this alien place.

The general stopped suddenly and Mitya nearly plowed into her, stumbling to a halt. She stood still, waiting, while the crowds of other travelers milled past them. Peering around her, Mitya looked to see what she was waiting for. He gave a start. Closing the distance swiftly between them was a tall man. This alone was not startling. There were plenty of tall men around them. This one, however, stood out. His hair was silvery-white and his skin was a dark tawny color. He wore exotic clothing, and Mitya was startled to realize that his long coat, trousers, and boots would not have look too out of place in a book of old folk tales. Then there were his eyes. They were red. Not red as though he hadn't slept for days. His irises were red.

But what was truly surprising was the way the man strode up to General Armstrong, swung her into his arms, and kissed her passionately. Her suitcase fell to the ground with a thud. It was hard to tell whether the general was enjoying this or not, but the man didn't seem to care. Mitya stared for a moment, then looked quickly away. This was quite possibly the most bizarre thing he'd seen since coming to this country.

* * *

Olivier finally pushed herself away. "Not now, all right?"

Shua moved in again. "But I _burn_ , woman!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a brief, hard kiss. Then he jerked his head toward Dmitri. "Who's the kid? And why am I thinking 'red-headed stepchild'?"

Olivier pressed a hand against his chest. "Because you think you're funny." She looked up at him with a stern attitude while trying to stiffen up her knees, which had gone a little mushy. It really was wonderful to see him. But although this old station had seen its share of public displays of affection from those in uniform, she was still on duty until her mission was accomplished. "His name is Dmitri and he's a political refugee from Drachma. I'm taking him to Ishval so Miles can sit on him for me."

Shua considered the unexceptional boy before him. Dmitri was trying not to stare back, but he couldn't quite help it. He'd probably never seen an Ishvalan before. "Ah," Shua remarked. "Well, the only Drachmani I know are a few phrases I picked up from Miles and I can't say them in front of children."

"It doesn't matter. He's not very talkative. Where's your stuff?"

Shua looked over his shoulder to a station porter who wheeling up a luggage cart. "Just coming up." The cart was loaded mostly with musical instrument cases.

Olivier shook her head. Shua never seemed to be able to travel without bringing a small orchestra with him. "The connection to East City leaves in fifteen minutes. We should get moving."

"Right." Shua picked up Olivier's suitcase and set it on top of the others on the luggage cart. He held his hand out to Dmitri for his bag. "It doesn't look heavy, but you want to throw that on, too?"

"He doesn't speak Amestrian," Olivier reminded him.

"So? That doesn't mean I can't talk to him."

Dmitri's hands tightened on the handle of his bag and shook his head. "See?" Shua said to Olivier. "We understand each other just fine. He's telling me to keep my mitts off his sad little bag." He tousled the boy's hair. "You'll like Ishval, _lahaat_. It's got to be better than where you're from."

"He doesn't express opinions much, either," Olivier said. "And he probably won't be staying long anyway."

Shua gave her a questioning, slightly sharp look. "Why not?"

Olivier grew a little wary. "Because he may end up being placed somewhere else."

Shua briefly lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Fair enough," he remarked, apparently dropping the subject, rather to Olivier's relief. They were generally on the same page, politically. They were both staunch supporters of keeping Amestris' borders secure, but Shua had a bit more of a soft spot for people in general than she did.

Olivier strode ahead. "Let's get on that train."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention at this point that this story has moved ahead in the series timeline. It's 1924 by FMA reckoning.

"If my chattering's bothering you, sweetheart, tell me to shut up."

Shua took Olivier's hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers. He had been going on about Mika and Stoyan's wedding, gossiping about his neighbors, and just generally catching up. Olivier didn't seem to be paying much attention.

She offered him a half-smile. "Sorry." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Shua nodded. "Like our young friend there?" he asked, deliberately not looking at Dmitri, who sat across from them.

"I suppose."

She'd explained who the kid was. Shua had expressed some skepticism. Olivier admitted to some lingering doubt herself. Assuming the kid was even who he was supposed to be, he was already officially removed from succession. That apparently didn't stop some from wanting to set him up as a rallying point for a counterrevolution, which was probably why the Drachmans wanted to get their hands on him. They'd lock him up in a deep dark hidey hole somewhere in the frozen north—if he was lucky.

In the back of Shua's mind, an idea sat and niggled and bothered him. Olivier's preoccupation was not so much about the boy's welfare. She had plans for him, and Shua wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were. The two of them made a point of not telling each other how to do their jobs. She was a military leader guarding a border shared by a hostile nation, and she needed to be ruthless. The soldiers under her command worshipped her. Even Miles, who's had his own command for years now, would still shove his head up his own ass if his ice queen asked him to.

Shua loved her deeply, but his devotion wasn't quite that blind. As a politician, he could understand the necessity of having the boy earn his keep, so to speak. As a father, though, it rubbed him the wrong way.

_I mean, sweet Ishvala! Look at that poor lad, sitting there, silent as the grave, probably because he's wondering if he's going to end up in one. Whose confidence could he possibly inspire?_

Ollie didn't seem to think there was much going on inside the boy's head, but that was probably from want of finding out. Maybe that was just as well. If she actually got to know him, she might have second thoughts about whatever scheme she was cooking up. Well, once the boy got to Ishval, if only for a short while, he'd at least get some decent food in him and a bit of meat on his scrawny little frame. In the meanwhile, Shua found himself a little curious to see what the boy might look like with a smile on his face. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his _dudek_. It was a short flute, more like whistle, really. It was easy to carry around. You didn't have to put it together, blow it up, or tune it. He managed to catch the boy's eye, and he gave him a grin and a wink as he raised the _dudek_ to his lips.

* * *

Mitya tried to observe the red-eyed man out of the corner of his eye without being noticed. He wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He and the general seemed like a strange couple, being such opposites. The general, with her chilly, guarded demeanor and her economy of speech, was so much at home in the snowy north. This man, who didn't look much like the wretched, downtrodden Ishvalans that were depicted in his history book, was voluble where the general was taciturn. His expressions were animated like a storyteller, even though Mitya couldn't understand what he was saying.

At one point, when Mitya was stealing a glance at the Ishvalan, he found himself meeting his gaze. The man had some sort of wooden whistle thing in his hand, something that looked like a toy. With a smile and a wink that portended mischief, the man blew through the whistle, playing a tune. It was almost painfully bright, like shafts of sunlight. It was full of trills and little runs and was probably meant to be danced to. Mitya couldn't help staring as the man's dark-hued fingers danced over the holes of the little instrument.

Mitya was transported back several years ago to when he and his classmates were taken on a field trip to a collective farm outside the capital. The students were told that all the collectives were just as productive and efficiently run as this one, but when he was a bit older, Mitya couldn't help wondering, if that was the case, why there were so many food shortages. For him, the highlight of the trip was not the gleaming tractors or the baling machine or the ripening fields, but the old peasant that lived on the farm. He was an ancient pensioner, a wizened old man with twinkling blue eyes. He played some tunes on a sopilka, a little wooden flute. Some of the children giggled at him, but Mitya was captivated. He always wanted to go back again but was never afforded the chance.

General Armstrong gave the man a few moments' consideration, trying to look disinterested but with a little smile on her lips, then she turned her gaze back out the window. She was probably accustomed to this.

The Ishvalan went into another tune, his fingers moving impossibly fast, ending on a high trill. The other passengers in the car applauded and the man tapped the flute to his forehead in a salute. He then twirled the little instrument in his fingers and leaned across to tap Mitya on the knee with it.

He pressed his hand to his chest. "Shua," he declared, introducing himself. Then he pointed the flute at Mitya. "Dmitri?"

Mitya nodded and Shua nodded back in acknowledgement. He broke into a smile and said something else, and the words fell on Mitya's ears as slightly different from the language he'd been hearing so far, but he wasn't quite sure. The general said something, seeming to chide him, and he scoffed back at her. He spoke to her teasingly and tried to pull her into his arms. She slapped his hands away but he was persistent. Mitya figured he'd better look away.

* * *

The train slowed as it entered East City Station. Olivier gave Shua, who had taken it into his head to become amorous, a final push. "We're here!" she announced firmly.

"Ah, good!" Shua exclaimed, thankfully distracted. "It'll be good to see that boy again!"

"He's hardly a boy," Olivier reminded him. "He's halfway through his doctorate."

"Stoyan will always be a boy to me," Shua replied. "Dejan will always be a boy to me. And you're still your father's little girl," he added.

Olivier smirked a bit. "Is that a fact?"

"On my soul it is. Mind you, he was, you know…" Shua mimed drinking out of a glass. "…when he told me." He raised a finger. "Which doesn't make it any less true. Take my word for it, love. Having kids does things to you."

The train slowed to a stop and the majority of the passengers gathered their belongings and got off. Olivier sat back to wait for the train to continue its journey. It had come as a boon to those travelling eastward that they could now ride the rails from Central to Ishval without changing trains, even though Ishval was still something of a specialized destination. This direct connection was more due to the completion of the rail line to Xing, making Isvhal the hub for travel to the far east.

Shua stood and leaned across to search the platform through the window. "There!" he exclaimed, knocking on the glass with a laugh. "There he is!"

He dashed from the train car and out onto the platform to snatch Stoyan, his grandson-in-law-to-be, up into his arms, bouncing him up and down a couple of times. He then turned to pump the hand of the young man who was with Stoyan. They left a cart of luggage for the porter to attend to and got on the train together. They clattered down the aisle, Shua leading them back to his seat.

"Here we are, lads!" Shua announced.

Stoyan stopped at Olivier's seat. He bent down and she let him kiss her on the cheek. She was genuinely fond of the young man, although at twenty-nine he was really no longer a boy, despite what Shua said. Stoyan had won her respect, not something that was easy to do, by his single-minded diligence. He was a scholar in the best sense, earning a BA and an MMA in short order. He was in the middle of working toward a PhD in Ethnomusicology, a relatively new field, and when he was all finished, he would return to Ishval to teach, write, compose, perform, and who knew what else. His mentor, Shua's son Dejan, had gotten Ishvalan music on the stage and made it popular. Stoyan would turn it into a serious study.

"Hello, General!" he said. "It's good to see you again!"

Olivier smiled back at him. Stoyan was the solemn type, but like the rest of her husband's family, he made her rank sound like an endearment. They all called her that, except for Mika, whom she allowed to call her Baata Ollie.

Stoyan turned to the other young man. "You remember Anthony Knox?"

"It's been a while, but yes," Olivier replied, shaking the hand offered to her. "I hear you're going to be joining Dr. Marcoh."

"That's right," Anthony said. "I'm taking up permanent residence at the hospital in Ishval." He smiled. "My folks are out there now, too. My father's working on the Old Ishval dig."

Shua clapped him on the back. "Oh! And here's another of our merry band!" He gestured to Dmitri, who was observing all this silently. "This is Dmitri…uh…"

"Otrepyev," Olivier answered for the boy.

"Dmitri Otrepyev, this fellow here is Dr. Anthony Knox. And this fine fellow here is one of Ishval's brighter jewels, Almost-Doctor Stoyan Dimitar, Master of Musical Arts." Shua clapped a hand onto Stoyan's shoulder. "This fellow is about to be wed to my lovely granddaughter. You'll meet her, too, by and by—"

"He doesn't have the slightest idea what you're saying!" Olivier reminded him.

"He'll catch on," Shua replied, with a wink at Dmitri.

Out on the platform, whistles were blown and passengers were adjured to board. The train gave a slight shudder and started slowly moving forward.

"You fellows get settled," Shua said to the newcomers. "And tell me what you've been up to."

* * *

"So there's this fat little man on his fat little backside in the middle of the road with the how-d'ye-do end of an ancient black powder pistol up his right nostril!"

After Stoyan and Anthony had given accounts of themselves, Shua filled up the rest of their journey with tales of how he spent the Exile. Stoyan had already heard the best of them, and he spent his time making notes for his dissertation, books and papers spread across an entire seat. Anthony, however, was a fresh audience.

"So after I'm done watering the plants, I step out onto the road," he went on. "I didn't know enough of the local gab just yet, so I just give a bit of a shout. These three roughs give a jump and stare at me. They must have figured me for competition, but I never bothered to ask afterwards. The one with the gun jabbers at one of his mates, who starts coming toward me, his knuckles practically dragging on the ground. He takes a swipe at me, and there's probably a lot of weight behind it, but it's easy enough to lean away from. I slip around him and give him a sharp jab in the kidneys and that drops him. The other one comes loping up, and—"

The train began to slow and Shua glanced out the window. " _Eh-h!_ Home at last!"

"Wait! What happened next?" Anthony prompted him.

"Ah, well, we'll finish that one up later, maybe over a glass or two of _sholmi_ ," Shua replied with a grin. "This batch has been aging for six years, and I'm going to savor this one."

The train rolled up to Ishval Station, which had expanded over the past several years. The original two-room, single-story building had been expanded both up and sideways to create office space, store freight, and accommodate more passengers, those coming from the west as well as the far east. Many of the larger Xingese clans had retired their caravans in favor of much quicker trade by rail. There were a few diehards, like the Chang clan, who would still transport smaller goods by camel at least once a year, simply for the sake of tradition.

Olivier looked out the window to scan the platform, and she smiled a little to herself when she saw Miles standing alongside Shua's son and his family. Dejan had a small boy sitting on his shoulders. Shayur, who was somewhere between four and five, as far as Olivier could remember, was wide eyed with his mouth in a large "O" at the sight of the train pulling in. A tall, slender girl stood beside Dejan, craning her head to search through the train windows, her hands clasped together under her chin. Completing this company were an Amestrian couple, whom Olivier recognized as old Dr. Knox and his wife, here to await the arrival of their son.

The train conductor strode through the aisle as he did at each stop. "Ishval Station!" he announced loudly. "Ishval Station! Please make sure you've collected your belongings, ladies and gentleman!"

Olivier leaned forward a little. "Get your things," she told Dmitri in Drachmani. "This is our stop."

* * *

It got progressively warmer the further southeast they travelled. It was hard for Mitya to imagine that he'd been in a snowstorm less than a week ago. The land had changed as well. From the snow-covered, heavily-forested north, they had gone through pale, rolling meadows and farmland in the first pale green blush of early spring. Then things started getting a little greener. Then the green turned to a pale off-red as the grass faded away and became bare earth. The trees grew shorter and wider, their spidery, just-budding branches resembling the crooked ribs of a beat-up looking umbrella with no covering.

The sky was a pure, uninterrupted blue, something Mitya wouldn't see in Drachma until very late spring, one of those rare days when people could sit out in the parks and sun themselves before the city was invaded by the mosquitos that bred furiously in the marshes just to the north. Right now, Drachma was still under a layer of snow.

Mitya made bold enough to take off his coat. Alyokha had gotten it for him in a second-hand store, and it was big on him. Alyokha remarked that he would grow into it. He hadn't yet, but it had plenty of room to accommodate layers. He didn't need those now, any more than the coat itself. The extra clothes he'd had on him when he showed up at Fort Briggs were now in the canvas bag that had been sitting on his lap for the entirety of the train ride. He stood up, the bag's handle in one hand and his coat draped over his arm.

As the general steered him down the aisle toward the door of the train car, Shua hurried on ahead. The two younger men followed behind. Stepping down onto the platform, Mitya blinked against the bright sunlight. He felt a nudge as one of the young men, Stoyan, the Ishvalan, pushed past him and sprinted across the platform. Running toward him was a girl who threw herself into him arms and kissed him. There was suddenly a lot of hugging and cries of greeting and laughing. Shua was hugging another man with a long braid, then taking up a small boy in his arms. The other young man was being hugged by a man in spectacles and a blonde woman. For the moment, Mitya stood forgotten.

The general went up to another figure in uniform, another Ishvalan, with whom she exchanged salutes. They seemed pleased to see each other. After exchanging a few words, among which Mitya heard his name, they turned to him. This Ishvalan officer regarded Mitya with that disconcerting red-eyed gaze. He was a formidable figure, tall and stern, a commander of men, which struck Mitya as a bit surprising. From what he had learned, the Amestrian military had purged the army of all its Ishvalan personnel. Perhaps this, like a number of other things, was not actually true, although this was the first Ishvalan he had seen in a uniform.

The officer stepped toward him and Mitya nearly stepped back. The officer smiled slightly. " _Doishtede na Ishval_ ," he said in a smooth, deep voice, then added in Drachmani that was as flawless as the general's, "Welcome to Ishval, Dmitri Ivanovich."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://sons-of-the-desert-fma.tumblr.com/post/77352337104/at-one-point-when-mitya-was-stealing-a-glance-at) is what Shua's little dudek tune would sound like. Warning headphone users: it's kind of shrill.


	6. Chapter 6

Olivier looked at her watch and scowled. "So, we get to cool our heels for an hour?"

"Give or take," Miles replied.

The general let out a huff of exasperation. "I suppose it can't be helped," she muttered.

"I'm afraid not, ma'am." Miles met her eyes in the rear view mirror. "The _khorovar's_ priorities are very fixed." He counted them off on his fingers. "God, his family, and his people, pretty much in that order."

"Hm!" Olivier crossed her arms. "I thought I was family."

"Well, yes…" Miles shrugged. "So am I. But this isn't a family matter. We're just going to have to wait until he's done at school." He glanced in the rear view mirror again. "I'll be sending the car for him. That'll speed things up a little."

Olivier sat back, not satisfied, but resigned nonetheless. "Well, the sooner I can get this dealt with, the better." She watched the desert pass by them for a few moments. "How much did you tell him?"

"Andakar?" Miles didn't turn around, but she heard him give a quiet chuckle. "Most of it. Then he figured out the rest on his own."

"Hm. Well, he's nobody's dumbbell," Olivier mused. "I suppose he's offered his opinion."

"Do you want to hear it?"

Olivier shook her head. "I can guess." She considered the back of Miles' head. "What about yours?"

Miles hesitated for just a brief moment before saying, "You know I don't question your judgment, General."

"Bullshit!" Olivier replied with a half grin. "I know you have."

Miles held up two fingers. "All right. Twice. The first time was when you first chose me as your adjutant. That was my mistake. I just didn't know you well enough. The second time was when I came back to Briggs with my wife. That was…" He trailed off, probably unsure how to put it.

"That was my mistake, Miles," Olivier quietly finished for him.

Miles looked back over his shoulder with a smile. "Let's say we broke even on that one."

"Fair enough. But that doesn't answer my question, and I want it answered truthfully."

Miles nodded. "If I didn't have as complete an understanding of the situation in the north, I would have some misgivings about this," he stated. "But my understanding is pretty complete, and any misgivings I might have are outweighed by my trust in you."

Olivier realized she was holding her breath while Miles spoke, and she let it out quietly. "Thank you, Miles. That means a lot to me."

"For what it's worth, ma'am," their driver, Command Sergeant Major Benjamin, interjected cheerfully, "I think you're the cat's pajamas."

Olivier couldn't help smiling. "Thank you, Benji."

* * *

They drove through the strangest landscape Mitya had ever seen. Gazing out through the backseat window, he watched as a wide variety of spiky, lethal-looking cacti, low-hanging trees, and scrubby little plants flashed by. They had to stop once to wait as a herd of goats crossed the road. A couple of black and white dogs barked at them before trotting on their way. The soldier driving the car waved at the people tending the goats as the last of them crossed the road. These people looked a little more like the Ishvalans Mitya had seen in books except they looked happy.

Mitya sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He tried to take stock of his situation so far. He assumed that at least part of the conversation in the car concerned him. Back in Drachma, at least he could understand what other people were saying when they were talking about him like he wasn't there. Here he was adrift and completely at the mercy of these blue-uniformed officers. It didn't help that his surroundings were so alien it could almost be another planet. The far north of Amestris at least resembled Drachma after a fashion, which, although not necessarily a comfort, was a tiny piece of familiarity to cling to. He was almost tempted to take his _matryoshka_ out of his bag, just for the feeling of security it might give him, but it might appear childish. The general already seemed to hold him in slight contempt.

It wasn't long before the car approached some sort of walled compound. Above the open entrance gate were two flags. One was the green and white flag of Amestris; the other was a white flag with a grey bird on it, standing above a border of a red stripe and a yellow stripe. There were four armed soldiers standing at the entrance, and they saluted as the car drove through. This place was clearly some sort of military fort.

They drove on for just a short distance before coming to a stop in front of a long cream-colored building with a red tile roof. The driver and the officer got out of the car. The driver opened the door on Mitya's side and stood waiting until Mitya stepped out. The officer had opened the door for the general.

The general stepped around the car and past Mitya, nodded toward the building. "Come on," she told him.

Still clutching his bag, Mitya followed her and the officer inside the building and down a hallway. This was an entirely difference place from Fort Briggs. It wasn't all sealed away from the outside. The colors were all warm. They walked along dark red tiles. The walls were a cream color over plaster. There was none of the deep thrumming of machinery that seemed pervasive in the northern fort. This place had its own sort of noise. Voices were loud and vibrant, except when the two officers strode past them; then everyone snapped to attention.

The officer stopped at one of the doors along this hallway and he opened it. The general steered Mitya through the door and the officer followed them inside, closing the door behind him. In the room was a large desk made of a reddish wood, some filing cabinets, a bookshelf, and a couple of chairs that sat in front of the desk. On the wall behind the desk was a photograph of a uniformed man with a grey mustache and glasses. Further down the wall were some watercolor paintings and pencil sketches.

The general pointed to one of the chairs. "Sit down," she told Mitya.

As he sat down, the general dropped into the other chair. "This is Colonel Miles," she said finally. "Commander of Fort Ishval. He'll be keeping an eye on you for a while."

Mitya glanced at Colonel Miles as he sat down behind the desk. Apart from giving off a clear manner of authority, he was otherwise hard to read. He did not have the open demeanor that Shua did. He had a somber appearance, which did not necessarily denote a beneficent nature. He was a watcher and a thinker. Judging by the breadth of his shoulders underneath his uniform, he was not an idle man.

The colonel asked the general something and she shook her head then gestured to Mitya. The colonel turned his gaze to him.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked.

Mitya had started to get used to the jittery feeling in his stomach and he wasn't even sure if he was hungry. But before he could reply, his belly let out a gurgle. It could have been hunger or nerves. The colonel's mouth pulled in a smile and he picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk and pushed a button. After a moment, he spoke briefly, then hung the phone back up.

"Somebody will bring something in a few minutes," the colonel said to Mitya. "We're waiting for someone else." He glanced up at a clock on the wall that said 12:50. "And it might be a while."

Mitya nodded. He did not expect to have even that much explained to him. The colonel was clearly not as terse as the general, but she seemed to be rather unique. The two officers continued to converse quietly in Amestrian. After about ten minutes there was a knock at the door and the colonel called out a reply. The door opened and a soldier came in carrying a tray. The colonel pointed to the corner of the desk closest to Mitya and the soldier set the tray down. He then saluted and left.

Colonel Miles gestured to the tray. "Pull up a chair."

Mitya drew the chair close to the desk and considered the food on the tray. There were two bowls, one with rice and small brown beans and the other with some kind of stew. There were also two pieces of round, flat bread. The stew smelled good, although Mitya wasn't familiar with what the smell was supposed to be. He took a small spoonful and put it in his mouth. It was initially very tasty but then his mouth began to fill with a searing heat. He swallowed the food quickly and put his spoon down. His nose started to run and he sniffled as quietly as he could. There was a tin mug on the tray and a glanced revealed its contents to be water. He picked it up and gulped it down.

"Too spicy?" he heard the colonel ask.

Mitya put the cup down and nodded, gulping air.

The colonel picked up a ceramic pitcher that sat at the other end of the desk and poured more water into Mitya's cup. "Stick with the rice and the flatbread," he suggested.

Mitya concentrated on the other food on the tray while the two officers talked. After a while, as his mouth stopped burning, the conversation ebbed. The general drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and gazed around the office, looking bored and impatient.

They sat like this for some time. Mitya finished the rest of the food on his plate. It was good, but he was not in a frame of mind to enjoy it. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, which now said 2:10. He sat back in his chair and wondered anxiously who this other person was that they were waiting for. Perhaps something akin to a commissar or some other party official, someone with whom these two officers would discuss his fate.

There was a stirring in the hallway outside the colonel's office and the two officers looked toward the door. Mitya, who was lost in his own thoughts, gave a little start at a sharp knock. Then, without waiting for a reply from the colonel, the door opened, and Mitya stared.

The man who stepped into the room was fully as tall as either Shua or Colonel Miles, and he probably had a bit more breadth across the shoulders. He was Ishvalan, dressed in the loose clothing and the striped sash that was common here. But there was nothing common about this man. His hair was close-cropped on the sides, but a silver-white ponytail hung to the middle of his back. He seemed to fill the whole room with an almost barbaric presence. Part of Mitya wanted to physically shrink into insignificance. The other part wouldn't let him tear his eyes from the man's face. Across the man's eyes, which seemed to burn, was a pale x-shaped scar. It extended over his brows and down to his angular cheek bones. The wound that had originally caused it must have been terrible, and the fact that he had survived it made him somehow terrible as well. When the man met Mitya's eyes, the boy froze like a rabbit faced with its last gaze into the eyes of a bird of prey.

The man's scar puckered slightly as his brows furrowed and he turned to the colonel, breaking the hold he had on Mitya. He spoke, his voice deep but not as smooth as the colonel's. He sounded displeased. Mitya waited with a growing dread to learn what role this man was meant to play in his fate.

The man and the general argued for a while, and at one point he turned and headed for the door. The general stopped him and they continued with an angry exchange. The colonel looked on with a cautious expression. To Mitya's horror, he could clearly make out the word alchemy. Colonel Miles finally interjected some sort of point that the man considered for a moment. After asking the general a few questions, he finally gave a nod.

The general spoke briskly in Amestrian, then switched to Drachmani, addressing Mitya. "This is Andakar Ruhad, the provincial governor of Ishval." She beckoned with her hand. "Pull your chair back over here."

That was a very strange progression of statements, and Mitya hesitated. The general let out an impatient breath and stepped forward, but the man held up his hand. He then stepped up to Mitya's chair and, gripping it by the armrests, he slid it away from the corner of the desk to the middle of the room. He then moved the other chair over to face it, and then he sat down. He looked back at the general with a somewhat irritated expression. She asked him a question which he replied with a shrug and a curt remark. She let out another huff and turned to Mitya.

"Hold out your hands."

This was an even stranger thing to say, and without any further explanation, Mitya felt completely lost. The man then held his hands out to Mitya, who could only think that he was meant to copy the gesture. He slowly raised his hands, which had been gripping the arms of the chair, and held them out. The man grasped them in his own and Mitya flinched. So did the man. His brows furrowed and Mitya thought he was somehow displeased. Then, he caught Mitya's gaze in his own and seemed to stare straight into his soul.

* * *

Scar strode down the hall toward Miles' office. He was a fairly frequent visitor here, and there was no need for him to be escorted or announced, which seemed to suit the personnel he passed by, considering the forbidding glower that he had on his face. When he reached Miles' door, he simply knocked and opened it. Along with Miles and General Armstrong, there was a boy in the room. He was a small, pale thing, the only color about him being his auburn hair and wide green eyes. The word that came to mind on first sight was _fragile_.

"This is your Drachman boy?" Scar asked.

"It is." General Armstrong rose from her chair and faced him. "Miles has already explained the situation to you?"

"He has," Scar replied. With another glance at the boy he considered the general. "And nothing about this…plan of yours strikes you as ill-conceived?"

A muscle in the general's cheek twitched but she answered calmly. "The threat from Drachma is real."

"I'm not disputing that. I'm questioning the fact that you're deliberately putting a child in harm's way."

"I admit that there is plenty of risk involved. I will take every precaution I can to see that the boy won't come to harm. That's why I brought him here." Olivier pointed to the floor of the office. "This land we're standing on is leased by the Amestrian military and while that lease is in effect, it is military property." She fixed Scar with a steady look. "Technically, you are not in authority here, but out of courtesy, your objections are formally noted."

"Oh, good!" Scar turned abruptly and headed for the door.

"Wait a minute!" Olivier strode across the floor and grabbed his arm. "We're not finished!"

Scar pulled his arm from her grasp. "I'm not one of your underlings, General!" he shot back angrily. "Ishvala willed…somehow…" he added with a slight roll of his eyes, "…that you are my kinswoman. But you ask more than you're entitled to."

"Oh, I think I'm pretty damn well entitled!" Olivier countered. "I pretty damn well rescued your ass not just from near death but from the authorities who still had a price on your head! I did that because I counted on you being just a little bit grateful!" She spread her hands. "Nobody can do what you do, and I don't see where I'm really asking you all that much!"

"The abilities that I have are not the tools of the government!" Scar growled. "I will not use my alchemy for anything other than the common good, and then only as the very last resort! And as I recall, you once dismissed it as a parlor trick!"

The general waved her hand impatiently. "This is for the common damn good! This could mean either the end of the Drachman threat, or it could just mean the end of this particular threat." She pointed at the boy. "I have to be one hundred and one percent convinced that he isn't a spy! If he isn't, then I need him to be fully cooperative! He won't be if I try to use conventional interrogation. Either way, it affects you and your people whether you think so or not!"

"Think of the boy, Andakar," Miles said. "It's for his benefit as well."

Scar paused. His instinctive distrust was not just of the motives of the military but also of his own alchemical abilities. He thought that he had made it abundantly clear that he would rather die than be considered anything remotely resembling a human weapon. Weapons could destroy by means other than fire, metal, or explosions.

But perhaps, on clearer consideration, he could actually do some good. He supposed that if this boy was to be kept safe here, there should be as little dissembling on his part as possible. Scar turned and looked down at Dmitri. He could not believe that anyone could consider this boy as a spy, but in a sudden, chilling moment, he recalled that no one could have considered that an innocent-looking boy could be a homunculus. The impossible was not always the impossible.

"What does the boy think of all this?" Scar asked. "Have you even told him yet?"

Olivier shook her head. "No, I haven't. I have to be sure I can trust him. For all I know, he may understand what we're saying perfectly."

"And do you think he's even capable of what you mean to ask of him?"

"I intend to place him in the most capable hands my agent can find."

Scar thought for a few moments. He supposed that what the general was asking him to do was really all he could do for the boy, as little as he relished the idea.

He nodded reluctantly. "All right."

Olivier gave a curt, grimly pleased nod. "Good! I'll ask him some questions and you tell me whether he's telling the truth." The general then spoke to the boy in Drachmani. Scar heard his name mentioned. At least she did that much. But the fact that they had been introduced seemed to have no effect on the boy's peace of mind. He was still too petrified to do whatever it was she was telling him to do.

Scar took matters into his own hands and pulled the boy's chair across the floor with him in it. He was naturally alarmed, but at the moment, that couldn't be helped. Scar moved the other chair and sat down to face him. After some more hesitance on the boy's part, Scar simply held out his hands. The boy, realizing what was expected of him, slowly brought up his hands. Scar wrapped his hands around them.

It never ceased to surprise him. He had no need to practice this "art." It happened whether he wanted it to or not, and it was fresh every single time. He had come to understand that this was much more related to alkahestry, sensing the flow of _qi_ but being able to probe beyond it. He had at least grown comfortably familiar with the sensations that came from those closest to him. It had indeed come as a gift to be able to tell what sort of mood his wife was in. He could tell what was troubling his children if they were upset, as well as being able to tell if one of them was fibbing about some small offense.

What flowed out of this boy was familiar as well, but disturbingly so. On the surface, the boy was guarded and silent. Within him, though, was a collection of emotions that Scar hadn't come across in years, not since the day he first learned that he had this ability. Back then, his now daughter Danika was filled with the same sorrow, fear, loneliness, isolation, and grief that he now sensed from Dmitri. There was one difference, though. There was none of Danika's rage. In its place was resignation, which was a sorrow all by itself. His _qi_ , as Scar could recognize it, was, for lack of a better word, smothered.

General Armstrong fired questions at Dmitri, which he answered as best he could. Scar didn't understand the exchange, but he could feel the boy's distress. It was not the anxiety of keeping something hidden; it was bewilderment at what was happening to him. His grief came to the forefront at some of these questions. He had clearly suffered some loss. If he was indeed the last of his house, that would make him an orphan.

The general was in the middle of one of her questions when Scar let go of Dmitri's hands. The relief was exquisite, but the moment passed and he grew angry.

"That's enough!" he announced. He stood up and faced the two officers. "I'm taking him home with me."

General Armstrong stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"He's not lying. He's not a spy. Apart from whatever else he might be, he's a frightened boy and he won't benefit from being locked up here." Scar lifted his hands to indicate the fort. "No offense to you, Miles," he added a little wryly.

Miles just shrugged. "None taken."

"Like hell! I need that boy under guard!" Olivier protested hotly.

"He's been granted asylum in this country, hasn't he?"

"Provisionally."

"Then he ought to be able to enjoy his freedom while he can!" Scar argued. He tempered his tone a little. "I give you my word, Olivier, that he will be just as safe with me as he would be here."

"He doesn't speak Amestrian, you know," Miles remarked.

"Then I'll teach him," Scar replied. "I am a teacher. I teach children his age every day." He stepped closer to Olivier, speaking earnestly rather than out of anger. "If you want to turn him into someone who could change the fate of a nation, he'll need nurturing and guidance."

Olivier gestured toward her former adjutant. "Miles could do—"

Scar held up his hand. "Miles could do it very well. But I want to take this on."

Miles shook his head. He even chuckled. "Andakar, you already take on too much. You're absolute shit at delegating."

"Don't worry about that, my brother," Scar replied. He looked back and forth from Miles to Olivier. "Let him learn what it is that he can fight for. Then, when the time comes, ask him if he thinks it's worth risking his life for."

The general gave Scar a hard look and gave a nod. "All right. I'm going to trust you on this. But," she added, raising her finger to point at Scar. "I don't want any resistance from you when I want him back. You need to promise me that or this isn't happening."

"Very well. You have my word."

She turned to Miles. "Keep an eye on them."

"Yes, ma'am!" There was the hint of a smile on Mile's face, as though he had expected this to happen.


	7. Chapter 7

"Where to, folks?" Benji asked as he drove back out through the fort's front gate.

Olivier heaved a sigh. "Jasmine Court, I suppose." The cul-de-sac where Dejan, Shua, and their sprawling extended family lived had been given that name some time ago, since that fragrant vine grew there in abundance. "Although I suppose my parents will expect me to make an appearance," she added glumly.

"They may be at Dejan's right now," Scar offered from the back seat. "So you can kill two birds with one stone."

Olivier looked over her shoulder at the back seat, giving Scar a narrow look. "Oh, thanks!"

"You're welcome."

"Are you gonna head home now, too, _Zhaarad_?" Benji asked.

Scar shook his head. "No, I need to stop at the marketplace."

"Right. Well, that's you first, then."

Olivier sat with her arms folded. This day had not quite turned out as planned, but she supposed circumstances could be worse. At least the kid was off her hands for now. Before she left Fort Ishval, she called Briggs to apprise Cooper of the situation. He didn't question her slightly unorthodox method of confirming Dmitri's provenance. After wrangling with Scar, she appreciated not being argued with. But now they needed to play a waiting game and let the dust settle a bit before Cooper ventured back into Drachma. He would need every ounce of his cold steel balls nerve on this mission, seeking out any remaining members of the Monarchist movement. But if anyone could do it, he could.

For now, she could turn her attention to the other business at hand, for which she would need her own steely nerves. As fond as she was of Shua's family, she was not a big fan of these enormous gatherings. This wedding promised to be well-attended, and not just by their Ishvalan neighbors. Shua's various buddies from Central and Stoyan's university colleagues, along with a number of other assorted people, had been invited. Among these was Roy Effing Mustang. Olivier couldn't decide who she would rather avoid more, him or her parents.

"I can hear you grinding your teeth," Scar remarked.

Olivier relaxed her clenched jaw. "Shut up," she mumbled.

"How old is this boy?" Scar asked in a swift change of subject. "Eleven? Twelve?"

"He's fifteen."

"You're joking."

"Says so on his papers, which we appear to have established are legit." Olivier glanced behind her and asked with a kind of grudging curiosity. "What else did you happen to see inside his head?"

"I didn't see anything," Scar replied. "I _felt_ enough, which I will not impart to you. Leave the boy some shred of dignity. Besides," he added, "don't you need to stay detached?"

Olivier shrugged. "Don't worry about me." She thought, but didn't add aloud, _you're the one I'm worried about._

* * *

Mitya realized that he had his fingers wrapped so tightly around the handles of the canvas bag they were starting to hurt and he slowly released his white-knuckle grip. He didn't quite understand what was going on. Colonel Miles had informed him that this man, the governor of Ishval, was taking him to his house so he didn't have to stay at the fort. The brief explanation that it would be more pleasant was neither convincing nor reassuring. Mitya was intimidated by both the general and the colonel. But this man who sat next to him in the back of the car was as downright scary as anything he had so far faced since being pursued to the gates of Fort Briggs.

What was all that hand-holding about? No one bothered to explain it to him, even though it seemed to make an enormous difference in how he was being dealt with. Mitya felt a strange dread as he wondered if it had something to do with alchemy. He didn't feel any different. There was no pain involved. He didn't actually feel anything except frightened. And now he was being taken home by this strange man. For the first time, Mitya felt the need to somehow escape, even though he knew it wasn't possible.

The man, Andakar, spoke with the general for a while as they drove. Mitya couldn't quite tell if the two of them got along, but it seemed as though they were somehow at odds concerning him. That wasn't reassuring, either, because he couldn't tell why.

They drew near to what looked like a city, the architecture being similar to the building at the train station. They entered this area through what looked like an alley and drove along it for a while, making a number of turns. This road was lined on either side by brick walls, broken at intervals by sets of steps. Through these breaks in the walls, Mitya could catch glimpses of the inhabitants walking along the streets, flashes of color, really, but he was too distracted to make much of an impression.

After a time, the car slowed and stopped by one of these sets of steps. The soldier who was driving spoke, looking back at Andakar, who nodded and replied. He turned to Mitya and pointed to the passenger side door.

"You're getting off here, Dmitri," the general informed him, considering him over the back of the front seat. "I realize you won't be able to communicate very well, but you'll be all right. Just behave yourself."

None of that set Mitya's mind at rest, but he had no choice. Andakar had already gotten out of the car, and Mitya was expected to follow him. With a tight hold on his bag, he opened the door and slid from the seat. The car purred away down the road and Mitya watched it with an odd sense of abandonment, since it carried away one of the only two people he could understand. Now that he was out of the car, he became aware of a collection of sounds and smells from the streets above the alley. They struck him as boisterous and strange.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. Andakar gave him a few pats that were probably meant to be reassuring but fell a bit short. Mitya glanced up at him. His gaze was still intent, but he no longer looked angry, just thoughtful. Maybe even pensive. He sighed and said something, knowing that Mitya wouldn't be able to understand him, but he seemed to be talking more to himself. He used the language that Shua had briefly used earlier.

He steered Mitya toward the foot of the steps and they ascended. The sounds went from being just sounds to being noise. They went through a walkway between two buildings and emerged onto a street, and Mitya stopped. Before him was a scene that was probably completely normal here but seemed to leap out from the pages of a storybook of some exotic make-believe place. The sun glared brightly down on some kind of outdoor market. Dusky-skinned Ishvalans strode up and down the street carrying baskets and bags of produce or fabric or parcels or other unidentifiable things. Open shops displayed all of these items in the widest variety of colors Mitya had ever seen.

Andakar, his hand still on Mitya's shoulder, gave him a slight nudge and they moved on. As they passed through the throng—that was the best phrase to describe it—the noise struck Mitya as senseless babble. It wasn't just speech either. Every few seconds, there was a burst of singing, sharp, half-dissonant harmonies that rippled up and down the street. Sometimes it would be high-pitched, slightly nasal women's voices, sometimes it would be men, but they all seemed to connect to each other, not quite an echo, but with an apparent pattern that nonetheless seemed to border on chaos.

At one point, Andakar nudged Mitya to one side as a young man pulling some kind of cart bore down on them and swerved to their left. The young man called out, either apologizing or warning them. An older couple sat in the cart, and they waved and nodded to Andakar.

It seemed as though everyone smiled or nodded or greeted Andakar as he passed by, and they regarded Mitya with open curiosity. Some even stopped Andakar to ask him questions, to which he gave only brief answers, probably saying no more than he's from Drachma. Some of his questioners would nod with understanding and move on while others seemed to want to probe further. Andakar seemed to be trying to keep it short and to keep moving on.

The brightness was everywhere, in all the color around him and in the incomprehensible language of the surrounding crowd. Even the blue of the occasional Amestrian uniform seemed brighter here. It was an assault on Mitya's senses and he simply couldn't process it all. He wanted to close his eyes and cover his ears, but that would look strange and he was already attracting more attention than he could bear. He began to feel a growing dread. Even with all his means of self-defense to block out his surroundings, he had absolutely no control over the sense of panic that was blossoming in his chest. His heart began to pound and he was afraid he might throw up. The recollection of Uncle Alyokha's last moments came sharply into his memory and he was filled with a renewed terror. He nearly stumbled. He felt like he couldn't breathe. His bag fell to the ground and he pressed his hands to his face, trying to suck in air with ragged, gasping sobs, wishing that everything around him would just stop or he would just die. Either, at this point, would have been fine.

* * *

Scar wrapped an arm around the boy's slender ribcage and more or less carried him into the closest shop. It happened to be the one he was heading for. Rugs lined nearly every surface of the interior, and some hung from racks suspended from the ceiling. A large upright loom stood in one corner and a woman sat before it, deftly plying a shuttle back and forth between the warp threads. She looked over her shoulder with a start as Scar burst into the shop. He was clearly not here to browse.

"Ah, _Zhaarad_ _Khorovar_!" she exclaimed, looking from him to the boy that hung under his arm. "What…ah…"

"Some water, Zamfyra," Scar replied quickly. "Can I take him in the back?"

As if in reply, a red, green, and yellow rug that served as a curtain was pushed aside, and an older woman stepped out into the front of her shop, a small child balanced on one hip. She took in the scene with one sweeping look and spoke sharply to the younger woman, who came and gathered up the baby. Nenya reached behind her to hold the rug aside and she waved Scar in impatiently, as though she'd already urged him to do so at least twice.

"What's wrong with the boy?" she demanded with no other preamble. "Is he sick?" She pointed to a stool that sat against the wall near several rolled up rugs. She bustled off through yet another curtained door and came back with a pitcher and a cup.

Scar lowered Dmitri onto the stool, where he leaned forward, barely propping himself on his knees. "I think he's—" Scar began.

"Where did you find him?" Nenya went on rapidly, demanding answers but not waiting for them. "Did someone just leave him out in the desert or something? Eh-h, who would do such a thing?" She quickly poured some water into the cup and tried to put it into his hand. "Here you go, my chick. Oh, you poor thing!"

The boy seemed to be only dimly aware of what was going on, and the cup in his hand looked in danger of falling to the floor. Scar caught it in time and slowly helped Dmitri sit up. Beads of sweat clung to the boy's forehead.

" _Ai, Zhaarad_ !" Nenya scolded as Scar got Dmitri to sip some water. "What were you thinking, dragging this poor, sick boy through the marketplace like that? Now the heat's gotten to him!"

"It's not that hot—"

Nenya waved away Scar's remark as inadequate. She grabbed a towel and poured water from the pitcher onto it. She then pressed the wet towel against Dmitri's face. "Look how pale he is! And he's so skinny!"

She thrust the towel into Scar's hand and bustled back out through the door, muttering and hissing to herself. She appeared a moment later with a plate of fruit and bread, which she set on a small table. She picked up a sesame roll and held it out to Dmitri, who could only frown at it dully and shake his head.

"Wherever did he come from?"

"From Drachma," Scar was finally able to reply.

Nenya stared at him and then back at the boy. "All that way?" she gasped. "No wonder he's skin and bones! Oh, you poor child!" She bent down and hugged Dmitri's head to her bosom.

"He didn't walk from there," Scar assured her, gently trying to pull Dmitri from Nenya's embrace before he smothered. "And he was fine up until just a short while ago. He's just having a little trouble getting his feet under him."

Nenya gazed at the boy with pity and shook her head. " _Ai!_ " she sighed. "Does he have a place to stay?"

"Yes. My house."

Nenya gave him an indignant look. " _Eh-h!_ And Rada so busy getting ready for Danika's fifteenth? Don't tell me you've forgotten!"

"No, I haven't forgotten," Scar replied. With a stir of his shoulders he added, "It may have slipped my mind briefly."

"Ah, well," Nenya said with a shrug. "What's six children when you already have five?" She nodded, apparently giving her approval. "Rada will take good care of him! She'll put some flesh on those bones!"

"He's not that thin."

"He is to me." Nenya put on a mournful expression. "I went hungry during the Exile so I could feed Zamfyra and Pashmina. Those were hard, hard times, _Zhaarad_ Andakar. I can't stand the thought of anyone going hungry." She took Dmitri's head between her hands and kissed the top of it.

At the voice of a child calling, Nenya left them and went out the door once more. Dmitri sat slumped on the stool, his forearms resting on his lap. His breathing had become easier and he was no longer in a sweat.

Scar let out a quiet sigh and rubbed the boy's back. He could feel a quick tightening of the muscles under Dimitri's shirt as he flinched.

"Sorry, _lahaat_ ," he said, speaking Ishvalan. It didn't seem to matter either way. "I'm sorry things have come to this pass." He crouched down so he could look up into Dmitri's face. "I know you can't understand me yet. But for a time, at least, you'll be able to rest easy."

* * *

Mitya ventured to raise his head. He wasn't sure what it was. Perhaps it was the underlying strength in the quiet rumble of the man's voice. Maybe it was the look of solemn concern in his eyes. Maybe some quality that Mitya had at first thought was barbaric was something quite different. But for the first time in many days, he could feel his unease begin to fade just a little.

The alarming woman came back in with a little boy who looked like he had just woken up. His sleepiness disappeared as soon as he saw Andakar. With a triumphant little roar he ran up to the big man and attempted to tackle him. Andakar smiled, something that transformed his face, and he boosted the child up so he could hang on to his shoulders. The woman chided the little boy mildly and turned her attention back to Mitya. She held the cup of water out to him and he took it, downing several swallows. His stomach was no longer threatening to eject its contents. The woman let out yet another long-suffering sigh and patted Mitya's cheek.

Turning her attention back to Andakar, she asked him a question, which he answered as though just remembering something. The woman gestured to the rolled-up rugs propped against the wall, and the two of them discussed these for a while. Andakar used his chin to point to one of the rugs, since he was still holding the little boy on his back. The woman nodded and gave the rug a pat. She then moved on to a set of open cabinets that held several smaller rugs. After conferring with Andakar, she chose two of them and took them over to stand them on end next to the larger one. As she did this, Andakar pulled a wallet from the sash around his waist. He took some paper money from it and handed it to the woman.

Another voice called from the front of the shop and the little boy on Andakar's back got very excited. The man let him down and he ran out through the curtained doorway. A moment later he returned, being carried by a slender young man, another Ishvalan. In his other hand, the young man was carrying Mitya's bag and he held it up, probably remarking how he'd found it in the street. Andakar took the bag from him and handed it to Mitya, who only barely recalled dropping it. He took it from Andakar with profound relief.

The woman stepped up to the young man and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then proceeded to scold him about something. Or it seemed like she was scolding. Maybe she just talked like that to everyone. Whatever it was, the young man seemed quite used to it. He greeted Andakar and the two talked for a few minutes. Since he was no longer the center of attention, Mitya took the opportunity to close his eyes and lean back against the wall.

* * *

"I just came to pick up Azar." Atash kissed the little boy soundly on his cheek. "His mama misses him!"

"Then perhaps his mama should come home once in a while, but who listens to me!" Nenya exclaimed. She lifted her hands to the ceiling and, by extension, the heavens. "Young people these days!"

"But we're busy, Auntie!" Atash argued. "Both hotels are nearly booked solid this weekend! Between folks coming for the wedding and for the Old Ishval dig, they need a place to stay, don't they?"

" _Eh-h!_ So many people!" Nenya waved her hand as though the very idea exhausted her. "If you're taking Azar, then I'm going to start supper." She grabbed Dmitri's head again, startling him out of his doze. She kissed him on both cheeks. "Ishvala bless and keep you, child!"

She left the room and Atash gave Dmitri a cheerful nod. "So who is this young fellow here, and why is Auntie making such a fuss over him?"

Scar drew in a breath, hoping for once that gossip would spread quickly. Then everyone would know and he wouldn't have to keep explaining. "He's from Drachma and he's going to be staying here for a while." He shrugged. "And Nenya is making a fuss because she's Nenya."

Atash nodded sagely. "He's staying here, you say? Auntie's taking him in?"

"No, I am." Scar considered the rugs that he had just paid for. He lifted the larger one and was about to set it on his shoulder.

"Hold on. Let me call for a puller, _Zhaarad_ ," Atash offered.

"Thank you." Scar's preferred mode of transportation was still his own two feet, but this time it wasn't just his own two feet he had to consider.

Atash went back out through the front and Scar could hear him give a sharp whistle. He carried the large rug through the front of the shop and into the street just as one of the pullers came jogging up. Salar was a veteran puller, the oldest of the current crew. Some of the older pullers, like Atash, had found other work. Two of them had even enlisted in the army. But Salar kept at it out of pride. He had won nearly every rickshaw race since the event's inception five years before.

"It's an honor, _Zhaarad_!" the puller declared. He lowered the shafts of his 'shaw. "Let me get that for you!" He took hold of the rug and loaded it into the 'shaw, propping it against the back of the seat.

"Push it to one side," Scar instructed him. "There's another passenger."

Scar went back inside to collect his two other rugs as well as Dmitri. The boy seemed to realize that they were leaving, and he looked a little apprehensive about going back outside. Scar gave him what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then beckoned him to stand up. Dmitri nodded and rose slowly to his feet. With the rugs under one arm and his other arm across the boy's shoulders, Scar led him back out onto the street. Dmitri paused when he saw the rickshaw. He stared at it curiously while Salar took the smaller rugs from Scar and set them proper against the seat. The puller then went to lift up the shafts again.

"Want to give your friend there a tour?" he asked.

"Not today, Salar," Scar replied. "Just take us to Jasmine Court."

Scar motioned to Dmitri to climb in, and the boy did so, moving cautiously, as if he wasn't sure it was sturdy enough. He sat down and Scar sat next to him. The rugs took up some room, but Dmitri didn't take up much, so it wasn't as much of a squeeze at it could have been. Salar set off at an easy lope and Scar sat back. He considered Dmitri, who seemed to be less alarmed by his surroundings than he had been before, although he seemed grateful for the cover the rugs afforded him.

While the boy glanced around in furtive curiosity, Andakar studied his face out of the corner of his eye. He still looked slight and fragile, and it was hard to believe that he was fifteen years old. It occurred to him that he had yet to hear the boy speak, but then, what could he say?

"Dmitri."

The boy looked up at him, perhaps a little startled at being addressed, and although he still had a cautious look, it was nothing like the fear with which he first regarded Scar. That was encouraging.

He had already been introduced, but he laid a hand against his chest. "Andakar Ruhad," Scar said, then added, with a bit more emphasis, " _Zhaarad_ Andakar." Might as well teach the local customs while they were at it. He gave the boy an expectant look.

Dmitri seemed hesitant, but it was clearly not from slowness of wit. He knew what was expected of him. He placed his hand on his chest and said, "Dmitri Ivanovich Otrepyev."

That was fairly impressive. Scar nodded in acknowledgement. They rolled along for a few more moments in silence, and then the boy added, almost shyly, "Mitya."

Scar's brows rose just a little and he gave another nod. This boy barely knew him, and he was already entrusting him with a diminutive of his name. Scar felt honored. "Mitya," he repeated.


	8. Chapter 8

"Ah, Dad!" Dejan sighed and propped his forehead on the heels of his hands. "I still can't believe it! This house is gonna feel so empty!"

Shua gave a sigh of his own and took another olive from the plate in front of him. He popped it into his mouth and slowly ground the tangy flesh from the pit. He worked the now clean pit to the front of his mouth and took it out with his fingers, dropping it with its fellows on the plate.

"This is what you wanted, son, remember?" Shua remarked. "More to the point, this is what Mika wanted."

"But she's my _baby_!"

"You've got another baby. A damn fine lad and one who'll carry on the proud name of the house of Shua."

"Yes, I know. But…" Dejan's face took on a mournfully sentimental look. "Shayur didn't go through what Mika and I went through together."

"Seems to me that's just as well." Shua leaned his forearms on the table and fixed his son with a look. "Mika didn't go through what you and I went through, either. Thank Ishvala Shayur hasn't had to go through any of that."

"Thank Ishvala." Dejan agreed, then looked mournful again. "But I'm still gonna miss her like hell!"

Shua let out a groan. "I swear, Dejan, if you don't stop whining about it, I'm gonna take one of my knives and hack that braid off your damn head!"

Dejan leaned across and gave his father a shove against his arm. "And if I have to hear any more about how crazy Amestrians are, I'll spit in your tea!"

Shua pushed his cup out of spitting distance. "They are crazy," he insisted, as he did pretty much every time he came home. "They're as crazy as a pack of drunk-ass jackals under a blue moon."

Dejan had to chuckle. "That's pretty crazy."

Shua picked up an olive. "See this? There are stores in Central City that sell cans of mushy olives that've had their pits removed. Now, the way I see it, something good—as good as an olive, say—should be savored, one at a time, like a ritual. The crap in the cans, people just gobble 'em up without a second thought." He popped the olive in his mouth and talked around it. "Crazy!"

"Yeah, all right, Dad," Dejan conceded wearily.

Shua dropped the pit onto the plate. "Gotta love 'em, though," he mused.

"Olives?"

"No. Amestrians." Shua shrugged. "Well, maybe not as a whole." He frowned a little. "There's only one I actually have to love."

Dejan gave him a slightly cautious look. "You say that like there might be a problem."

Shua shook his head. "No. I just…" He looked over his shoulder as his attention was directed toward the front door. He lowered his voice. "…worry about her sometimes."

"Anybody home?"

"In here, love!" Shua called back.

Olivier peered around the side of the doorway. "Are my parents here?" she asked warily.

"Not this time," Shua replied. "Your ma and Naisha are out shopping. Your dad's off with Alex at the dig."

Olivier groaned. "Alex is here, too?"

"He's sketching stuff."

"Oh. Well, let's hope that keeps him busy." Olivier moved to the table and picked up an olive and nibbled on it. "Speaking of stuff, is mine here?"

Dejan pointed up. "In your room. Nobody's touched it."

"Good." Olivier headed back out the door. "I'm going to go unpack and then get off my feet while it's still quiet."

"Better hurry then," Dejan called after her. "School's nearly out and I've got students today."

"Yeah, fine," Olivier's voice drifted back as she went upstairs.

Shua braced his hands against the table and stayed that way for a moment, debating whether to get up.

"Better hurry after her, Dad," Dejan suggested with a grin. "Shayur'll be home soon, and he'll be looking for you. I don't want him to catch you doing stuff I have to explain."

Shua pushed himself up. "Don't worry about that, son. When the time comes, I'll teach him everything I know."

Dejan's grin faded a little. "Now, that'd make me worry."

Shua chuckled and gave him a backhanded clap on the shoulder as he left the kitchen to follow Olivier upstairs. He went down the hall to the room that was kept for when one or other or the both of them came to Ishval. He found Olivier shrugging out of her uniform jacket and tossing it on the bed. She rolled her shoulders and greeted him with a half-smile.

"Let me get settled, Shua," she said. "It's been a long couple of days."

Shua gave a wave of his hand and sat on the bed. "No worries. Settle away."

Olivier turned her attention to the open suitcase on the bed and continued to transfer its contents to a chest of drawers. Her dress uniform, which had taken up most of the room in the case, was already hanging in the _meskaa_ wood wardrobe. Shua watched her for a few minutes before speaking.

"So," he began. "How did it go at the fort? Is your boy all bunked in out there?"

"Dmitri?" Olivier tossed a couple more pairs of socks into the top drawer. "No. That was my plan, but that wasn't how things turned out, not after his worship the _khorovar_ got involved."

"Ah." Shua almost smiled. The _khorovar_ tended to like to do things his way.

"He's decided to take Dmitri home with him for the duration." Olivier set a hairbrush on top of the dresser. "So now the kid gets to experience Ishval in all its domestic glory, complete with noisy siblings and a yappy dog."

As far as Olivier was concerned, any dog that dared to make a sound was yappy. She didn't like dogs. Brigadier General Mustang, it was said, liked dogs rather a lot. Maybe that was it. K'shushi was a fairly well-behaved mutt, as Shua happened to know. He was yet another poor little stray that Alphonse Elric seemed to have a knack for finding, this one at the Resembool train station. Since his elder brother put his foot down, Andakar was the next likely soft touch. For him to take in yet another lost pup was no surprise.

"Anyway," Olivier went on, closing the now empty suitcase and setting it on the floor. "I suppose I can't complain. It may not be quite as secure as Fort Ishval, but Andakar Ruhad is as much a part of the Indomitable Eastern Wall as Miles is." A tone of irony in her voice didn't escape Shua's notice.

"Gave you grief, did he?"

Olivier cast him a slightly irritated glance. "A little. That's pretty much his calling in life." She shrugged, looking away. She puttered over the contents of the dresser drawer like it meant something. It wasn't like she folded her underwear. "I gave as good as I got."

"I don't doubt it." Shua drummed his fingers against his knees. "Look, Ollie, I don't have to get my tea leaves read to figure out what you've got in mind for your princeling."

Olivier slammed the drawer shut. She must have been expecting something like this. "You and I had an agreement, Shua! I don't tell you how to vote and you don't—"

Shua put up his hand. "Settle down, _laleh_!" he said sharply. "That's not what I'm doing! I just want to know if you're prepared for—"

"I'm…working…on…it!" Olivier growled back through clenched teeth. She faced him, her blue eyes glittering like ice. "I'm not running into this blind! I've got my best damn agent, a man with whom I would emphatically trust the fate of this nation, primed and ready to set my plan in motion! And he doesn't make a move until I'm damn good and ready to—"

"Look, Ollie," Shua cut her off. "You can plot and scheme to your heart's content and do whatever you have to do short of calling down the wrath of Ishvala! I want to know if you're prepared to face what could happen should your plan meet with misadventure."

Olivier lifted her hands. "If it goes belly up, the Drachmans will hush it up like it never happened. It'll be a ripple on the water. There will be no repercussions!" She jabbed her finger at him as he opened his mouth. "And I did not have this conversation with you!"

She strode to the door, but he couldn't let her leave like that. He didn't much like pulling this sort of tactic on her, but he was no stranger to fighting dirty.

"You cry in your sleep."

Olivier spun around and stared at him, angry and incredulous. "What the hell? I do not!"

Shua lifted his shoulders. Ishvala, that look on her face hurt. "On my soul, _laleh_ , it's true. Ever since we got married, but I expect before as well. It's only sometimes, but I can't vouch for when you're not with me."

She frowned at him for a few moments. "Why haven't you told me this before?" she demanded.

"Because I knew it would upset you, which is not what I'm trying to do, believe me."

Her eyes narrowed. "You haven't told anyone else, have you?"

"Of course not!"

Olivier walked slowly back to the bed and sat down beside him. She looked shaken, and Shua almost regretted what he said. But a thought, once spoken, sprouted wings. "You are a hell of a woman, Ollie," he said. "I could tell that the moment I laid eyes on you." He grinned a little. "You might not have been able to tell, but from that moment, I swore I'd win you."

He actually got the merest hint of a smile out of her with that. "Is that why you acted like such an idiot?"

He nodded. "That's why I acted like such an idiot. I thought to myself, now that woman looks cold as ice but she's got a fire inside her that I want to warm myself beside."

That was meant to make her feel better, but her little smile didn't last long. "But I cry in my sleep," she muttered, a bit contemptuously.

"Ollie, my honey, it doesn't mean you're weak!" Shua replied quickly.

"Of course it doesn't!" Olivier snapped back. She folded her arms tight against her, like she felt cold, something that generally didn't happen. "It just…It makes me feel…" She pursed her lips together.

Shua finished for her. "Vulnerable."

She glanced at him sharply, perhaps even apprehensively, then looked away. "What is your point?" she said in a tight voice.

Shua blew out a quiet sigh. He'd better make this good. "You carry the north on your shoulders like no one else can, and the men who serve under you would gladly go to hell and back for you! But some of those who've gone didn't come back, like the fellows you lost in that set-to in Central back in '15. Like your Captain Buccaneer." He studied her profile although she avoided his gaze. "Maybe you think you'll dishonor the sacrifice they made if you let yourself grieve. But grief can eat you alive if you don't come to terms with it. I say that 'cause I know."

Olivier let out a weary sigh. "Shua, what does this have to do with the boy?"

Shua put an arm around her and pulled her closer. She resisted for a moment, then yielded. He touched his head to hers. "I did find that fire inside you, love, and nobody but me knows just how sweet and warm it is. You let it burn bright for me, but I think it burns even brighter when you're not awake to keep it tamped down. That grief inside you fans the flames, so it comes out in your sleep. I don't wake you up because I don't think you'd thank me if I did."

He squeezed her shoulders. "But it breaks my heart, _laleh_ , it does. Now, you know that I know that you do what you have to do to keep this country safe. But if that boy, who's not a soldier and certainly not a king, dies because you sent him back, it might break your heart without you even knowing it, and I couldn't bear to see that happen."

Olivier turned her head so that their foreheads touched. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "You don't have to worry about me."

He liked it when she used that tone. It meant she wasn't mad at him anymore. "Oh, now, you have to let somebody worry about you, Ollie! Why not the fellow who's closest to you?"

Olivier tilted her head back a little to fix Shua's eyes with hers. "I don't want Dmitri to die or even get hurt. As a matter of fact, ultimately, I'm going to let him make the decision for himself. And if he agrees, I'm going to do whatever is in my power to put him in the right hands. But I shouldn't have to tell you that." She gave a little smirk. "The fellow who's closest to me should have a little more faith in me."

Shua gazed back into her blue eyes, which had gone from ice to sky. He smiled and nodded. "Yes, Ollie. I should." He leaned in and kissed her. "I have to."

She kissed him back, touching his lips lightly twice before pressing against them more deeply. After a few moments she drew back and searched his face. Her eyes looked a little wistful. "Next time you hear me crying in my sleep, wake me up."

Shua lifted his brows a little. "You sure about that?"

Olivier nodded. "If it needs to come out, then it needs to come out. But I want to be there when it happens. And I want you to be there, too."


	9. Chapter 9

The scent of jasmine was everywhere at this time of year. The residents of the cul-de-sac that now bore the plant's name had it growing on trellises, against walls, and along the ground. The only place it was barred was in Scar's back yard after Alphonse told him that jasmine was highly toxic to dogs. K'shushi was a good dog. He didn't dig in the garden, he wasn't wantonly destructive, and he only barked at the chickens once a day as part of his morning ritual. He was fairly intelligent, but having been a stray as a puppy, he had grown accustomed to eating things that weren't meant to be eaten. He was now amply fed and he had toys to chew on, but any ornamental plants were reserved for the front of the house so he could have the run of the back.

Salar drew up to the front of the _khorovar's_ house and lowered the shafts of his 'shaw. Delighted barking could be clearly heard from the other side of the door. Over the top of the rolled up rug with which he had been sharing his seat, Dmitri peered at the house. The boy's curiosity was guarded, but at least it was curiosity. That seemed like a good sign.

"Can I help you with those rugs, _Zhaarad_?" Salar asked.

"No." Scar handed the puller a couple of cenz notes before hefting the larger rug over his shoulder. "I've got it."

He took one of the smaller ones and tucked it under his arm. He then nodded to Dmitri to get the remaining one. The boy had no trouble figuring out what he meant, and he stepped out of the rickshaw carefully, a rug under one arm and his canvas bag in his other hand.

With a wave, Salar took up the shafts of the rickshaw and jogged away. Scar turned toward his front door which, thankfully, was opened for him. A black and white blur streaked through the narrowest opening afforded and launched itself at Scar, who was helpless to defend himself. It was rather amazing how high K'shushi could jump. He had no desire to jump over the back wall, but the face of his human parent was a thing he would defy gravity to reach.

"Get down, you idiot!" Trying not to laugh, Scar fended off the dog's affections with his elbow.

Rada came out of the house with their youngest son, Timothy, on her hip. The little boy seemed delighted at the dog's antics. After a few attempts at trying to lick Scar's face, K'shushi turned his attention to Dmitri, whose face was a much easier reach. The boy jerked his head back and nearly toppled over backwards.

"K'shushi!" Rada cried sharply. "Get back in the house! You know better!"

With a few satisfied barks, K'shushi galloped back into the house, only to emerge a moment later, as if to urge the others inside. Rada shooed him back in, and he sat in the open doorway, whimpering with anticipation.

Rada stepped up to Scar. "Oh, good! You got the rugs."

"And a bit more besides," Scar replied, bending down to kiss her and to plant a kiss on the top of Timothy's head. "I'm sorry I didn't send word, but we have a guest."

"I see." Rada turned toward Dmitri and smiled at him. "Hello!"

Considering the boy's pale complexion, a blush was easily evident. He gave a little duck of his head in greeting but said nothing.

"Oh, now, you're not shy are you?" Rada said warmly. "What's your name?"

"His name is Dmitri," Scar answered instead. "And he is shy, but he also doesn't speak Amestrian. He's from Drachma."

"Is he?" Rada's eyes widened a little. "Well! Imagine that!"

K'shushi let out a pathetic whimper from his spot in the doorway to remind everyone of his presence.

"Let's go in," Scar said, "and I'll explain."

K'shushi's toenails clicked and scrabbled on the tiles as he scampered around them all, wriggling like an eel. Scar set his rugs down on the floor so he could finally crouch down and turn his attention to the dog. K'shushi flopped onto his back to get his belly rubbed. Scar looked up at Dmitri and with his free hand, pointed to the rugs on the floor. Dmitri set the third rug alongside them and stood off to one side, waiting.

Rada gave the boy another reassuring smile, then turned to her husband. "How did he come to be here?"

"Olivier brought him," Scar replied, "and his stay is temporary. He left Drachma under less than favorable circumstances, and until a more permanent arrangement is made, we are basically safeguarding him."

"Safeguarding him? You mean, from the Drachmans? Surely they wouldn't come all this way!"

"It seems unlikely, but Olivier wanted to take every precaution," Scar replied. "He was meant to stay at the fort, but—"

"But that's hardly a place to keep a child!" Rada finished for him.

"Exactly."

Rada considered him for a moment. "There's more, isn't there? I don't see General Armstrong going to so much trouble over a child. I mean, not out of compassion." She made a grudgingly rueful little quirk with her lips. "I don't mean to speak badly of her," she added. "She's family, after all, but she's a soldier down to her soul, and she's funny about Drachma."

A smile pulled at Scar's mouth. "That's one way of putting it. She has good reason to be cautious."

"That's as may be!" Rada argued. "She can't just use a little boy for her own ends like that!"

"He's not a little boy, he's fifteen."

Rada waved her hand. "That's not important! Honestly, what could he do against the Drachmans? Is Olivier going to strap a bomb to him and send him back? Some of our people did that to themselves during the war, which is horrible enough!"

"No, that isn't what she means to do," Scar assured her.

Rada let out an impatient huff and shifted Timothy to her other hip. "Well, what, then?"

Scar sighed and glanced at Dmitri, who was starting to look worried. With a final pat against K'shushi's ribs, he rose up. "Rada, I promise you a better explanation later. For now, let's get him settled. He's travelled a long way."

Rada's look of consternation went immediately to one of concern and she turned back to Dmitri. "Yes, of course! Andakar, bring one of the smaller rugs up, will you?" She linked her arm through Dmitri's and led him to the stairs. "I suppose the boys will have to wait to have their own rooms."

Scar followed them with K'shushi scrambling at his heels. "Turyan won't mind, and Mattas spends more time on the roof than in his room."

"That's true enough. And Turyan hasn't outgrown his little bed yet, so Dmitri can have the new one. _Eh-h!_ " Rada exclaimed with a little laugh. "Maybe it was meant to be!"

"I'm not sure which part," Scar replied. "But you may be right."

They reached the top of the stairs and Rada led Dmitri down the hallway to the right. She pushed the second door open and drew Dmitri into the room. It was furnished much like the other children's rooms, with a bed, a table and chair, and a chest at the foot of the bed. K'shushi darted into the room and jumped up on the bed, only to have Rada shoo him out of the room. Scar stepped in and unrolled the rug on the floor, revealing a pattern of blue, gold and red. Then both he and Rada stepped back to let Dmitri take in his surroundings.

He seemed a little unsure at first, just gazing around at the room. Then, almost cautiously, he set his bag down on the bed. He turned to look with shy wonderment from Scar to Rada, and after a couple of hesitant false starts, he finally spoke.

" _Bol'shaya spasibo!_ " He gave a little bow of his head, and it was clear that he was expressing thanks.

Rada gave a soft little cry and cupped Dmitri's face in her hand, kissing him on the cheek. "You can stay here as long as you want to, Dmitri!"

Scar didn't bother to remind her that the boy couldn't understand her. Judging by the timid smile that had grown on Dmitri's face, it didn't seem to matter.

K'shushi let out a sudden, sharp bark and scrambled downstairs, and soon, voices could be heard coming through the front door.

"Ah!" Rada beckoned Dmitri to follow her and they went back down the stairs just as Danika, Mattas, Winry, and Turyan were being greeted by K'shushi. Schoolbooks were dropped on the table, and K'shushi bounded from one child to another. As Scar came down the stairs, he shook his head and smiled to himself. This had become yet another household ritual, one that never seemed to grow stale, not since the first day Alphonse had brought the skinny puppy to their house nearly two years ago. The poor creature was delirious, tripping on his own gangly legs, unable to lick all the children's faces quickly enough. It was what inspired Scar to name him K'shushi, a word from ancient Ishvalan that described the innocent, unabashed joy of a simpleton.

Rada kept a hold of Timothy, who would surely get knocked down in all the excitement, but the little boy squealed and waved his arms at his siblings.

Mattas was first to get back to his feet after wrestling with the dog. "Mama!" he called, louder than he needed to, as was his habit. "I'm starved! Is there any—" He stopped short as he noticed Dmitri standing just behind his mother. He blinked in surprise. "Oh. Hello!"

"Children," Scar announced, stepping up beside Dmitri. The young Drachman was starting to look a little overwhelmed and Scar laid a hand on his shoulder. The children all stood and gathered together: Danika, just growing into womanhood, the twins, both energetic and growing like weeds, Turyan, quiet and already studious in his first year of school. "This is Dmitri Otrepyev, but he likes to be called Mitya."

Mattas' mouth crooked in a grin. "Nice to _meet ya_!"

His twin rolled her eyes then smiled. "Hi, Mitya!"

Turyan gave a little wave. "Hello."

Danika stepped up to Dmitri and held out her hand. " _Doishteve_ , Mitya!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Scar caught the nearly transfixed look on Dmitri's face as the boy slowly raised his hand to shake Danika's. With her clear blue eyes set against her tawny complexion, Danika's features were certainly striking, and Scar had begun to realize, not without a measure of trepidation, that she was starting to attract attention. In his eagerness to act on Dmitri's behalf, Scar had nearly forgotten that he had a daughter who was just turning fifteen, and here he was, bringing home a fifteen-year-old boy to live with them. He nearly winced while two high-minded ideals collided painfully with each other in his head.

Well, it couldn't be helped now.

Mattas moaned and groaned about not being able to finally have his own room, but with a stern look from Scar, he grudgingly came to terms with the situation. Once Dmitri's circumstances had been explained, even Mattas felt generous toward him. The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent as it usually was, despite having a new member of the household. Schoolwork was attended to, laundry was brought in, vegetables were gathered from the garden, the dog was fed, and dinner was prepared. Even Dmitri was given the task of holding a basket while Winry dropped just-picked green beans into it.

When they gathered for their meal, Dmitri sat between Mattas and Winry, although Scar caught him glancing a number of times at Danika. Or maybe he just thought he did. Dmitri seemed a little wary of the food at first, but once he tasted everything, he ate a fair amount.

"Here!" Mattas said, pointing to the bowl of _khushuei_ , a salad of chopped roasted vegetables. "Have some of that! It's really good!"

"He doesn't understand what you're saying," Danika reminded her brother.

Mattas shrugged. "Doesn't mean I can't talk to him. How's he gonna learn?"

The boy's logic was unarguable. "That's a good point, Mattas," Scar said. "But keep it simple. And don't confuse him by switching back and forth between languages. Let him learn Amestrian first."

Mattas picked up a piece of flatbread and held it up. "Bread," he said to Dmitri.

Dmitri considered it for a moment, then repeated, "Bread," with a hint of a rolled r.

Turyan held up his milk. "Cup!" he piped.

"Cup," Dmitri replied.

"Ooh! Let's see…" Winry looked around the table, then laughed and pointed at K'shushi, who sat as close as he was allowed to. "Dog!"

K'shushi barked in reply, which sent all the children, Dmitri included, into a fit of laughter.

Scar and Rada exchanged a smile. The newest member of their family was already starting to fit in, and it was easy to forget, for now at least, that it was not a permanent fit.

* * *

"Are you serious?" Rada kept her voice down, despite her astonishment.

"That's what I was told," Scar replied.

They were taking a short walk around the cul-de-sac with K'shushi on a leash. The dog sniffed at some jasmine that was growing in front of Scar's cousin Damyan's house. Scar tugged on the leash and K'shushi good-naturedly trotted on. The children were all in bed, and the night was mildly cool. They didn't venture far from the house, but they didn't want to be overheard.

Rada shook her head in amazement. "Royalty! Somehow, I can't picture it."

"No, neither can I," Scar agreed. "Then again, I've seen young people his age do some extraordinary things."

"Even so," Rada said. "It's such a terrible risk!" She pressed her hands to her face for a moment. "Oh, Andakar, now I wish I hadn't asked!"

Scar generously forbore from agreeing with her. She looked up at him. "Isn't there something you can do? You're the _khorovar_ , and he's on Ishvalan soil! Couldn't you…couldn't you offer him asylum apart from Amestris?"

"I could create a political standoff, if that's what you mean."

Rada blew out an exasperated breath. "No," she conceded reluctantly. "Not after all we've accomplished here. But it isn't fair! What if Dmitri doesn't want his throne back, or do whatever it is Olivier wants him to do?"

Scar considered her question, then asked, "What if he does?"

"Oh, really, Andakar!"

"I'm serious. He may be small and timid, but he isn't stupid." They had walked nearly to the end of the street and now they turned to head back. "In my years of teaching, I've noticed that the quiet students often are the keenest observers. I don't know how much time I have, but if I teach him nothing else, I want to teach him to stop looking down at the earth and to look up and face the world."

* * *

He should have been exhausted after such an arduous day, but Mitya couldn't get to sleep. He was still bewildered by the turn in his circumstances. It was hard to imagine that it was only this morning that he left the hotel in Central City. And now, here he was, in a place that had been, until now, so far away as to be practically mythical. His journey had come to a halt, at least for the time being, in a bed in a room of his own. It was lavish compared to the communal apartment building that he lived in—used to live in. They had two rooms; he slept in the front room, which also served as living and dining room. His parents had the room behind it.

He felt a twist in his stomach as he remembered them, having left himself unguarded. It had never really gotten any easier over time. His parents died three years ago. Their deaths had been sudden, and he had yet to really come to terms with it. He didn't entertain any sort of childish notion that they would come back, but it still seemed somewhat unreal, even though a couple of times each month Alyokha would take him to the cemetery where his parents' graves were. They would pull the weeds and leave flowers, and when needed, they would paint the grave markers, thin blocks of scrap metal with photographs of his parents set into them behind an oval of glass.

Alyokha's death had been just as sudden, but at least Mitya saw him die. When Alyokha was buried up in North City, the grave seemed sterile, with just a plain metal plaque set flat into the ground and inscribed with words Mitya couldn't even read.

Mitya turned over in his bed and tried to think of something else, something that wasn't painfully overwhelming. He tried to decide whether he was going to like it here, once he got used to it. The mother, Rada, was vibrant and serene at the same time, a bit like his own mother. The children were open and friendly. He was surprised by how quickly they had…absorbed him, which was the best way he could describe it.

Andakar was the one who had really surprised Mitya. He had been sincerely frightened of the man at first, and he was still an intimidating presence, but there was a solemn kindness about him. It almost startled Mitya to realize that Andakar was actually treating him with respect. He gazed into the dark, turning this concept over in his mind. It wasn't something he was used to. His initial response, faced with anything new and unfamiliar, was to shy away from it. But that might risk losing it, and Mitya realized he didn't want that to happen. Without understanding anything that had been said, he managed to recognize the fact that this man had taken on the role of his advocate.

What had happened during those minutes when Andakar gripped his hands? Did it have something to do with alchemy? Whatever it was, that was the point when things seemed to change. Andakar seemed to take on all the authority in the room and the officers finally deferred to him. It was a little awe-inspiring. It had been for Mitya's sake, and it called for respect in return. Mitya wasn't sure what he could do to repay this man, but he would do it.

He was still anxious about the uncertainty of his future, but for now, at least, he felt like he had a purpose of his very own. Even if he was here for only a short time, he would do everything he could to not disappoint these people.

He relaxed a little, and he finally started to feel sleepy. As his eyelids grew heavier, he allowed himself to conjure up the image of a pair of blue eyes set in a warmly dark complexion and delicate features, surrounded by raven-colored hair.


	10. Chapter 10

Early morning sunlight filtered in through the pattern of diamond-shaped holes in the shutters. It wouldn't really have drawn Mitya out of his sleep if it hadn't been for the dog barking below. Mitya sat up, setting his feet on the rug that lay on the floor. The sleeves of the tunic and trousers that had been borrowed from a neighbor had come unrolled during the night, and Mitya had to spend a few moments rolling them back up over his hands and feet.

"Dog," he pronounced quietly to himself. "Bread. Cup. Room. Bed." He thought he sounded passable. "Danika. Mattas." He frowned a little in concentration. "Oo…oooinry." That was a hard sound to make. "Ooo-uh. Oo-wuh. Oowinry." He took one more stab at it. "Winry." He nodded to himself, satisfied. "Timotey." No, that wasn't quite right, but he didn't hear the baby's name spoken more than once or twice. He could work on that one later. "Andakar." He shook his head. " _Zhaarad_ Andakar. _Zhaarana_ Rada." He smiled. "K'shushi."

That was everyone and everything he could remember. He resolved to take more careful note while others were speaking. He was sure he could pick up the language. He had always been a quick learner although he seldom let that fact be known. He never wanted the attention. Things were different now. Now he had an ambition.

He stood up and went to the window. Lifting the small latch on the shutters and opened them. The sun was just coming up over a dark, hazy range of distant mountains. Light began to warm roofs tiled in various shades of pale orange-red to dark brick. In the nearer distance, a few miles away, a round dome of glittering red dominated the surroundings.

Mitya leaned against the deep windowsill and drew in a breath. It smelled clean here. City smells didn't vary much from Drachma to Amestris. There was always some sort of industrial smell, car exhaust, or diesel fumes. Here the smells were earthy and fragrant, much of that coming from those little pink flowers that seemed to be everywhere. It was quiet, too, or at least it was here. Mitya was sure that once the marketplace stirred into life, it would be just as noisy as it was the day before. He thought he'd like to go back, just so he could get used to it. He felt pretty silly for panicking the way he did.

He leaned a little further through his window and looked down at the yard below. He had been out there for a short time the day before, helping Winry pick vegetables in the kitchen garden. The chicken coop stood a few feet away from the house, just a little way past the overhang that ran the length of the back of the house. Down in the yard, K'shushi trotted around in a contented way, sniffing anything that caught his interest.

Mitya couldn't hear anyone else stirring within the house. Feeling bold, he left his room and padded quietly down the hall and down the stairs. He moved silently past the bedrooms downstairs and stepped out through the back door. The air was cool and crisp, pleasant even through the thin muslin fabric of his clothing. Underneath his bare feet, the flagstones that paved the area just behind the house were cold.

In the morning quiet Mitya became aware of the sound of softly labored breathing and he looked around. At the other end of the covered area he saw Andakar, who was hanging from a bar suspended from the rafters of the overhang. He was doing chin-ups in a measured rhythm, breathing steadily in through his nose and out though his mouth. He was shirtless and he had muscles like Big Levko, who worked at the munitions factory. Big Levko once bet Uncle Alyokha that he could bend a crowbar and won. But what was considerably more remarkable were the tattoos covering both of Andakar's arms. Mitya had never actually seen a tattoo on anyone. As far as he understood, only men who had been in prison had tattoos. But this was a different country, and Mitya was learning that he would have to abandon many of his preconceived notions.

Normally, Mitya would have ducked back inside if he intruded on someone else's solitude or vice versa, for that matter. But he resolved to brave it out. Andakar released his hold on the bar and dropped to his feet. He turned to Mitya with a nod, showing no surprise at his presence so early in the morning. He spoke two words and with a nod in reply, Mitya carefully repeated what he said.

"Good morning."

He considered the boy for a moment with a hint of a smile and beckoned him closer. Mitya stepped across the flagstones toward him as K'shushi trotted up and tagged along at his heels. Andakar pointed up at the bar and gave Mitya a questioning look, which Mitya took as a suggestion to give it a try.

Athletics was never something he excelled at, but Mitya gave a determined nod and positioned himself under the bar. He raised his arms, his rolled-up sleeves sliding down in a thick bunch around his upper arms. Letting out a little huff of annoyance, he pulled off the smock-like tunic. It struck him just how glaringly white his skin was, not to mention how thin he was, and that wasn't even in comparison to the man standing next to him. Without a word, Andakar held out his hand to take the shirt and Mitya handed it to him. He then hiked the drawstring waistband of his trousers up a little, tensed his legs, and jumped. He didn't even get close to the bar. If this had been his gymnastics class in school, it would have been yet another moment of mortification. This time, his determination only got fiercer. But he was spared yet another failure as Andakar gripped him by his ribcage. He spoke a single, questioning word, which Mitya took as asking him if he was ready, and he nodded. He made another jump for the bar, and with Andakar's help, he was able to grab it.

Andakar released his hold and Mitya hung there for a few moments, gathering his strength, which he did not have much of. He gritted his teeth and pulled. It seemed nearly impossible just to get his elbows to bend, let alone raise his chin to the bar. His instructors generally lost patience with him, but Mitya never really cared about their opinion. This time, it mattered. Out of sheer strength of purpose, his elbows bent and he slowly drew himself up, tilting his head back so the tip of his chin touched the bar.

He let his arms straighten and he hung there for a moment. He felt Andakar's hands against his sides, either to help him down or to steady him, but he shook his head. He wasn't satisfied with just once. Shifting his grip on the bar, Mitya pulled one more time. He didn't quite manage to get his chin to the bar, and his arms began to tremble a little, but it was the mightiest effort he had ever made. He straightened his arms and let himself drop to his feet. Mitya looked back up at the bar. It looked so high up. In the broader scheme of things it was pretty insignificant, but to him it amounted to a milestone.

* * *

Scar handed Mitya his shirt. Perhaps Nenya's remarks the day before were not such an exaggeration. The boy was awfully thin. He didn't actually look malnourished, but perhaps it just offended Scar's parental sensibilities, which tended to run high.

K'shushi came lolloping back to greet Rada as she stepped out through the back door, a basket hanging from her arm. "Looks like we have another early riser," she remarked.

She had taken her hair out of the braid that she slept in and she hadn't tied it back yet. For now, it hung loose around her shoulders, just a little disheveled. Scar loved the way she looked like that. He stepped up to her and drew her into his arms, breathing in the scent of her hair. He was vaguely aware of Mitya hanging back, and perhaps the boy was a little embarrassed, but Scar couldn't help that. He would never stop adoring his wife, and he would never miss an opportunity to assure her that she was loved.

But Mitya was still on his mind. "That boy needs feeding," he said softly

Rada tilted up her chin to receive a light kiss. "All children need feeding," she replied, as if he needed reminding. "That's why I came out here." She held up the basket. "I was getting eggs."

On cue, Scar snapped his fingers twice and K'shushi trotted to his side. "Sit!" Scar instructed.

K'shushi sat on his haunches, but still couldn't help wriggling, his brushy tail sweeping the flagstones. As much as he yearned to chase the chickens, his loyalty and discipline won out. Scar bent down to pat his head. "Good boy."

Rada headed for the henhouse and opened the gate to the enclosure. The rooster gave a few desultory flurries, just to show who ruled the roost, then he scampered off to the side. Rada disappeared into the henhouse for a few moments, and Scar turned his attention to Mitya. The boy seemed intent on rerolling his sleeves, his russet colored eyebrows pinched slightly, not embarrassed but perhaps a little troubled.

There was no sense belaboring how unfair this situation was or how helpless Scar felt. It galled him to have to think like a politician, but defying General Armstrong as well as Fuhrer Grumman, who had sanctioned this plan, could have potentially damaging ramifications against Ishval. And try as one might, the needs of the one were very difficult to balance against the needs of the many. The only authority he had to appeal to was the highest there was, and it would ultimately be up to Ishvala.

But as fragile as Mitya seemed to appear, Scar had caught a glimpse of a new determination in the boy's green eyes. Perhaps he had a better understanding of his circumstances than Scar thought. Whether he was inspired to liberate his people might be a bit much to expect, but he seemed open to challenge.

Scar bent down to scratch K'shushi's ear. On a much simpler level, K'shushi had started out as gangly and unpromising as well, but he had been eager to please. He learned quickly and had found his place in the world. With the right sort of encouragement, so could Mitya.


	11. Chapter 11

Attar ran ahead of his father to fall in with his cousins as they began their walk to school. "What's that Drachman kid like?" he asked eagerly.

"He's okay," Mattas replied. "Except he gets the room I was gonna get!"

Scar gave his son a mildly severe look. "I'm getting very tired of that, _lahaat_."

"Yeah!" Winry gave her twin a shove. "Stop complaining! You're lucky to have a home and a family! Mitya doesn't!"

"Yeah, I know," Mattas conceded grudgingly. Then he brightened. "He could share with Turyan! Then he'd really feel like he had a family!"

"It's okay," Turyan piped up. "I can share."

Scar shot Mattas another look and tousled his younger son's hair. "We'll discuss it later."

Miles fell in with them. "Hey, there, birthday girl!" he said to Danika. "Getting excited?"

Danika let out a little breath. She was probably getting tired of everyone asking her that, but she smiled graciously. "I sure am!"

"Yeah!" Mattas chimed in with a look that heralded what he thought was a clever remark. "And then she's gonna have a bunch of _soooters_!"

"Mattas!" Scar warned.

Danika just rolled her eyes and Winry looked disgusted. "That's dumb, Mattas! Nobody gets married when they're just fifteen!"

" _Baata_ -Zulee did!" Attar remarked eagerly. "My mom told me!"

The twins stared at him then turned wide eyes to Miles. "Is that true, Uncle Miles?" Winry demanded.

Miles nodded. "That's right." Since Zulema was well into her nineties and got around in Havoc's old wheelchair, the kids might have a very hard time picturing her as young, let alone a young bride. Miles didn't have that problem. "She once told me that there was a lot of competition for her hand."

"Yeah, but…" Winry looked doubtful. "Fifteen? I mean, didn't she even go to school?"

"That was a different time, laleh," Scar replied. "Education was prized, but not above survival. And what may have been considered appropriate then is not so now."

Winry scoffed. "Mattas just wants Danika to hurry up and get married so he can have her room."

"I do not!"

"Speaking of education," Scar put in firmly. "We need to get going." He looked at Miles. "Are you on your way to the fort?"

"Not yet," Miles replied. "I wanted to have a few words with Dmitri. I want—"

"We call him Mitya!" Mattas cut in. "He likes that better!"

"Mattas!" Scar said sharply. "When did I tell you it was all right to interrupt people?"

The boy's shoulders slumped. "If the house is on fire," he muttered.

"Is it?"

"No."

Scar nodded to Miles to continue. "I just want to have a few words with him."

"What sort of words?" Scar asked. His tone was outwardly casual, but Miles could hear the underlying suspicion.

"I just want to see how he's getting on," Miles replied, adding with a half grin, "without your son butting in."

The children had already started moving on. "Come on, Papa," Danika called back.

Scar nodded. "Fine," he said to Miles. "Just don't terrorize him."

Miles let out an impatient huff. "Don't terrorize your students."

"Hm!" Scar headed after the children. "They need it."

* * *

Miles fended off K'shushi's advances on one side and picked up Timothy, who was toddling past on his other side. He lifted Timothy into the air. "How's it going, little guy?"

Timothy gurgled back complacently.

Rada stepped out of the kitchen. "Can I get you something, Miles?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine," Miles replied. "I'm just stopping in for a minute." He set Timothy back on his feet and looked around the front room. "Where's Dmitri?"

Rada pointed behind her toward the kitchen. "He's just putting his plate in the sink." She moved closer to Miles and spoke quickly in a low voice. "I want you to know that I don't like this! I understand why it has to be done, I suppose, but I don't have to like it!"

Miles smiled at her, a little wearily. He had gotten a very similar lecture from his own wife just the night before. "That's the thing about duty, Rada," he said. "A lot of the time it involves doing things we don't like. That's why it's called duty."

"Hm!" Rada frowned. "When I think of duty, I think of a moral obligation. Is that what this is?"

Miles almost laughed, but he didn't dare do so. "You sound an awful lot like your husband."

"Good!" Rada shot back. Then her features softened into a smile. "I'm sorry, Miles. I just had to get that off my chest."

Miles clicked his heels and gave a little bow, which he meant with complete sincerity. "Ma'am, your remarks are duly noted!" He gave her a shrewd look. "But you and Andakar didn't really have to involve yourselves."

"Oh, I know that," Rada replied easily. "I guess you'd say we're doing our duty." She sighed. "I'll grow fond of him and then he'll be gone to do whatever he's called upon to do and I'll probably never see him again." She lifted her shoulders. "But I'll feel better letting him go with the thought that somebody somewhere cares about him."

Miles had to admit that he hadn't looked at it that way. Looking over Rada's head he saw Dmitri come out of the kitchen. He paused when he saw Miles and gave a nod. "Good morning."

Miles raised an eyebrow at the boy's nearly flawless Amestrian. "That was fast!"

"He's only picked up a little," Rada explained. "But you're right, it was fast."

"How are you this morning, Dmitri Ivanovich?" Miles asked him in Drachmani.

The boy looked up at him, looking almost startled to hear his native tongue. "I'm all right," he replied. He seemed a little cautious, but that might have been because of the uniform.

"Better than staying at the fort?"

Dmitri actually smiled a little. "Yes. I like it here."

Miles felt a twinge of his conscience. _Don't get too fond of it, kid._

"And you don't have to be formal. You can call me Mitya, uh…" Dmitri frowned slightly. "How do I address you? As Colonel or as _Zhaarad_?"

"Colonel will do. In Amestrian it's pronounced _ker-nal_."

Mitya nodded, registering the new information. Timothy waddled up to him and gripped his pant leg, looking up with a baby-toothed smile.

"How do you say his name?" Mitya asked. "I would say Timofey, but that isn't quite right."

"Timothy?"

"Yes." Mitya looked up at him intently. "How do you make that sound? I want to do it right."

Miles thought for a moment. "Uh…thhh," he uttered experimentally. "You touch the tip of your tongue against the edge of your front teeth and you sort of breathe out."

Mitya frowned a little, then the tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth. "Thhh…thhh."

Miles nodded. He knew that particular sound was sometimes hard for non-Amestrian speakers. "That's pretty good."

Mitya twisted around to look at the toddler, who was cruising around behind him. "Timo…Timothy!"

The little boy pointed at Mitya. "Ggglplh!"

"Timothy likes him so much already," Rada said with a smile as she picked up her youngest. She turned to Miles. "Could you ask Mitya if he'd like to come to the marketplace with me? I know it was a little overwhelming for him yesterday. I'd like to buy him some new clothes. The ones he brought with him are a bit threadbare."

Miles relayed Rada's question to Mitya, who agreed eagerly. The boy turned to Rada and said, "Thhank you!" He gave her an earnest look and added, " _Za vsye_!"

"For everything," Miles translated with a smile.

* * *

"Ah, welcome, Sister!" Alex boomed, spreading his arms wide. "And Brother!" He seemed much more pleased at seeing Shua. Having a brother, if only as an in-law, meant a lot to him. Catherine's young captain was a worthy, not to mention strapping fellow, but Shua was a lot more fun.

"Hello, Alex!" Shua greeted him back, returning the crushing hug as well as he could. "How's the dig going?"

"Splendid! I was so very honored to be asked to participate!" He turned to Olivier. "You must both come out and see the work everyone is doing. Father and I were just on our way."

Olivier frowned a little. "They've got Father sketching, too? Don't the university types have their own people to do that?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure," Alex replied grandly. "But the project is being headed by Uncle Sebastian, after all. And even the academics recognize the artistic talent passed down from generation to generation of the Armstrong family!"

"Oh, yeah. That." Olivier sneered a little. It didn't get passed down to her. "And I suppose the fact that the Armstrong family is helping fund the project has no influence at all, huh?"

"Don't be silly, Olivier!" Philip Armstrong strode up to them, his sketch pad, easel, and satchel under his arms. "Of course it does! They're college boys! They know exactly how to keep funding people happy! That being said," he added with an arched eyebrow, "we are rather good. Hello, you young scamp!" he greeted Shua. "Keeping out of the scandal rags?" He chuckled, leaning toward Shua conspiratorially. "You know, next time we're both in Central, the two of us should go out on the razzle, eh? Give the newspaper johnnies something to write about!"

Shua just smiled, catching the _don't you dare look_ Olivier gave him. "I don't think I could keep up with you, Phil."

Philip let out a booming laugh. "Ah, well, spending time with all these youngsters has put a bit of spring back in my step! Ah, excellent! 'Morning, Salar!" he called to the puller who had just dropped Olivier and Shua off. "Mind if we appropriate your rickshaw?" He moved on toward the road with Alex falling in alongside him. "Mother's inside at breakfast," he called back over his shoulder. "Do spend some time with her."

Olivier sighed resignedly. "That's why I'm here, Father."

She and Shua went up to the house. A couple of years ago, Phillip and Sophia Armstrong took it into their heads to build a winter "cottage" in Ishval. Just a modest little, three-story, 7200-square-foot getaway. It sat near the edge of South Kanda and had a view of the river from the second-story terrace. Their society friends teased them about "going native," but they settled in rather happily every year between November and April. Dejan's children were the closest thing to grandchildren that they would ever get out of their eldest daughter, so they doted on Mika and Shayur. This affection had naturally expanded to all the little cousins.

By Armstrong standards, the house was tiny. By Ishvalan standards, it was ostentatious. But they were respectful of the local inhabitants and customs, not to mention generous, and they had been accepted. Plus, their way had been somewhat already paved by being connected to Shua and Dejan's family, thereby connecting them to the family of the _khorovar_. These things mattered.

The household staff was minuscule and fairly informal compared to the mansion in Central, but the veteran butler, Jeffers, still announced their arrival.

"Miss Olivier and Master Shua, ma'am."

Sophia peered over her reading glasses as her eldest daughter and her son-in-law entered the dining room.

"Ah, there you are!" she said. "So glad you dropped by without me having to beg you."

"You wouldn't have to beg me!" Shua replied cheerfully, heading for the sideboard and lifting the lids on the chafing dishes. "Ooh! Kedgeree!"

Sophia smiled affectionately at him. "Help yourself, dear. Coffee?"

"Love some!"

Sophie looked across the table as Olivier sat down. "Watching your figure, darling?"

Olivier gave a little roll of her eyes. "We already had breakfast."

"Just coffee for Olivier, then, Jeffers. Thank you." Sophia turned back to the project she had spread out before her. "I hope you don't mind if I continue with this."

Olivier glanced at the small pile of correspondence and the open notebook in front of her mother. "Don't you have a secretary or something to do that?"

Sophia waved her hand. "Normally, yes, I would. But I don't bring my secretary when we come out here, since there wouldn't normally be that much here for her to do. Besides, I'm rather having fun with this." She smiled. "This is not on the same scale as Catherine's wedding, of course. Even with a secretary, that was quite an undertaking, and one that I'm very glad is over with, bless their hearts."

"Mm," Olivier agreed. Catherine and Galahad's wedding had been six years ago, but the family was still reeling from it. It had everything to put the most spectacular circus to shame, with the possible exception of elephants crapping in the aisle.

"This time, of course, I only had to send invitations to people outside of Ishval," Sophia went on. "And then only to close friends and family."

"All the family?" Olivier asked suspiciously.

"Yes, dear. All of them. They are not obliged to come. Your aunt Boudicca certainly won't, but I sent her an invitation because she expects to receive one. Your uncle Hamilcar is more like to be insulted by receiving an invitation, but that's a risk I'm entirely prepared to take," Sophia said with a small, triumphant smile.

Shua dropped into one of the chairs at the table with a laden plate. He winked at Sophia. "That's my girl!"

"Well, we can assume that those who we want to see will come, and those we don't, won't. Sebastian and Dorothea are already here, of course. Isabella and Simonedes will be coming out at the end of the week. The Armstrong-Zimmermans have responded, of course." Sophia considered her notebook. "Not to steal away any of dear Mika's glory as the bride, but this event is beginning to shape up as the first Armstrong family reunion held in Ishval. The tradition will have to be passed on to the next generation sometime, after all."

Olivier looked back at her narrowly. "Why can't we just let it die out?"

"Oh, I don't know," Shua said between mouthfuls. "Sounds like fun. Whoever doesn't come will just have to miss out! My grandbaby's loads better than their brats anyway."

"Yes, she is a very sweet girl," Sophie agreed. "And Stoyan is a very gifted young man. There is also the matter of celebrating Danika's fifteenth birthday on the same day. If this was taking place in Central, it would raise any number of eyebrows. But being Ishval, it's simply good economy and good sense. Most of the same people would be invited and one may as well feed them once rather than twice." She sat back in her chair with a contented sigh and a pleased smile. "It's all going to be quite lovely! If this were an official family reunion, I think it would top them all."

Olivier regarded her mother over the rim of her coffee cup, a little surprised. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I am, dear. An elaborate social event, like a debutante ball or a wedding, if done well, is an accomplishment you can take pride in. But as you get older, your priorities change. No." Sophia raised a finger and thought for a moment. "That's not quite right. I mean to say that you come to recognize what your priorities ought to be. As you know, it has always been terribly important to your father to keep close to his family, for good or ill. But I've since come to realize- -and he has too, I think- -that your family are those people who love you, whether or not you are related to them. That's real kinship. Those are the people whom you must gather together and cherish. And if you strip away all the social standing and the wealth and the influence, if you still have your family, that family, you're quite rich, indeed."

Olivier stared at her mother. "Wow," she murmured into her coffee cup.

"I mean, when you boil it all down," Sophia continued, "as fun as all these social games can be, they really are just bullshit."

Olivier spattered her mouthful of coffee back into her cup. Shua leaned back in his chair and laughed.

Sophia tutted. "Use your napkin, dear."


	12. Chapter 12

The marketplace was not the alarming cacophony that it was yesterday. Mitya made a point of observing his surroundings with more interest this time. Just as they had with Andakar, the inhabitants stopped Rada to chat with her. They even turned to address him, some with curiosity, some with friendly concern, probably recalling his episode the day before. Whatever they were saying, which he thought they meant kindly, they talked to him almost the same way they spoke to Timothy, whom his mother carried on her hip.

Mitya's arms were full of brown paper-wrapped packages that held Rada's purchases from the blond man at the shop they visited. Mitya marveled at how much the store held. The shelves were stocked full of all kinds of things, several of which Rada bought. The blond man behind the counter chatted with her like an old friend.

She read off a list to him, and he shook his head a number of times. Then he made a telephone call, reading the list to whoever he was talking to. He seemed pleased by the exchange, and Rada was, too. Judging by what they left the store with, the clothing Rada had wanted to buy for him had to be ordered from somewhere else. Mitya didn't mind. He was more than grateful for such a kindness.

They walked past the shop that Andakar had taken him into yesterday, and the woman who lived there came out and made a fuss over him, patting his cheeks and pressing her hand to his forehead to see if he had a fever. She chattered on rapidly, and even Rada seemed a bit relieved to move on.

Rada bought a few more things, some cinnamon, a jar of honey, and some oil (more words that Mitya made a point of memorizing), and then they rode one of those carts back home.

Home. Mitya looked around as they went back inside the house. He was fully aware that this was only a temporary refuge. He hadn't even been here that long and he already knew he would miss it painfully when he finally had to leave. When that would be, he didn't know. Where he would go from here and what he would be doing, he didn't know either. The one thing of which he was sure was that he needed to make the best of his time here and to savor every minute of it.

He occupied himself with exploring the house a little more, mainly the study upstairs. There were a lot of books, and Mitya took a few of them off the shelves to look through them. Some were written in what he recognized as Amestrian. Others were in what he assumed was Ishvalan. They were quite different. Even Drachmani, with its unique alphabet, was more similar to Amestrian.

He liked this room. The day before, the children spent time in here doing their homework. Mitya didn't think he would ever miss school, but there was something appealing about the sight of the others sitting around the table at their studies. Mattas seemed somewhat distracted, but his siblings seemed intent on their work, even Turyan. Mitya found himself yearning to be part of that scene. He sat down at the table and smiled to himself as he pictured a look of solemn concentration on Danika's face while she worked.

When the siblings came home from school later that afternoon, Mitya joined them in a snack of flatbread and honey before they went upstairs to the study. K'shushi was his usual excitable self, so much so that he ran down the hallway and emerged a few moments later with a rag doll in his mouth. Danika gave an indignant cry and started after the dog, who seemed to have had this very game in mind. He ran back down the hall, darting in and out of the bedrooms. Mitya was the one who finally rescued the doll, prizing it carefully from K'shushi's teeth. He gave it a quick inspection for damage. The doll looked old and was probably more of a sentimental keepsake than a toy that was still played with. The dog parked himself on his haunches, staring up expectantly, his tail sweeping back and forth, hoping Mitya might throw the doll back. But Mitya held it out to Danika.

The girl seemed relieved but also a little reluctant. It didn't help that Mattas laughed at her. She gave him a sharp retort, then turned back to Mitya to take the doll from him.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

She didn't quite meet his gaze, but she smiled a little. It seemed fairly clear that she was embarrassed. She had smiled, so she probably wasn't angry. Mitya was struck with a notion that nearly made him blush on his own account. Was she embarrassed because of him? Was she worried about what he thought of her? How could he possibly explain to her…

She started to turn away, but he tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She looked back at him questioningly, perhaps a little apprehensively, and he held up his finger, which he hoped was enough of a universal signal meaning to wait a moment. He moved past her and hurried up the stairs to his room. Opening the chest that sat at the foot of his bed, he took out his _matryoshka >/i>, which was still wrapped up in one of his shirts. He took it downstairs and held it up for Danika to see, feeling a bit shy himself._

She gazed at it for a moment with curiosity, then she looked at him. A moment later, she smiled, and he knew that she understood what he was trying to tell her. He smiled back in anticipation because there was more to show her. By now, Mattas, Winry, and Turyan had taken an interest. Mattas began to make a remark, but his sisters shushed him. Mitya carried the figurine over to the table and grasped the top and bottom halves of the outer figure. Twisting it open, he pulled out the next figure, repeating the motions until they were all lined up on the table: the warrior, the goddess, the minstrel, the snow maiden, the heroine, and the fool.

The other children were delighted with the figures, and even Rada came over to admire them. Mitya picked up the figure of Vasilisa the Beautiful and handed it to Danika. She took it from him carefully, looking closely at the details of the figure's painted braids and the little doll in her hands. She drew in a quick little breath and looked back at Mitya with a brilliant smile, something that he didn't need anyone to translate for him.

* * *

"What you doin', Papa?" Mira peered over the edge of the box that Miles was busy digging through.

"I'm looking for a book, sweetheart," Miles replied, a little distractedly, setting the other items aside.

"I gots a book," Mira informed him helpfully. She had a soft little voice, not like her namesake, who by the time she was four was already a terror, according to her parents.

"Thanks, Mira!" Miles leaned across the top of the box and kissed her on top of the head. "But I found what I was looking for."

He wasn't the type to collect stuff. If he had no use for something, he got rid of it. But he did keep this one box of things that he thought he might have a use for some day. Now that he had kids, it seemed a little more important. He tucked the well-thumbed book under his arm and started downstairs. He went slowly, helping Mira as she took one step carefully at a time.

The women sitting around the table looked up as he reached the bottom step. "Did you find it, Miles?" Vesya asked.

"I did! I'm glad I held on to it."

Zulema sat in her wheelchair, deftly twirling a drop spindle between her fingers. In her lap was a pile of wool, carded smoothly and dyed a pale rose color. She was in sight of a hundred, but she still had all her wits about her, and she could still spin a fine skein of wool yarn. Before releasing the spindle to let it spin, she peered up at Miles through her glasses.

"What is that you've got there?" she asked.

Miles held up the book. "It's a Drachman-Amestrian dictionary, Auntie," he replied. "I'm going to loan it to Andakar's young guest."

"Hm!" Zulema grunted quietly, which was how she reacted to pretty much everything. "No good will come of that, if you ask me."

Nobody ever did, but she offered her opinions just the same.

Nenya sat on the seat next to her, wrapping some spun yarn into a ball. "Oh, he seems like a decent boy," she said. "He looked so much better today than he did yesterday."

"Well, I should think so!" Zulema declared. "Just a day here in Ishval, where the air and the food are wholesome, would improve anyone." She raised her arm to let the spindle twirl. "Even so, boys are rascals, no matter where they come from. The _khorovar_ is to be commended for his charity, but I'm surprised that he has taken such a boy under his roof when he has a daughter on the brink of womanhood." She lifted an eyebrow ominously. "Need I say more?"

"No," Miles replied, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. "But you probably will."

As Vesya and Nenya stifled snickers, Zulema flapped a hand at him. "Oh, go on with you!"


	13. Chapter 13

While the other children attended to their studies, Mitya gazed at the books on the shelves. One shelf was dedicated to books in Ishvalan, which was completely incomprehensible. The rest were in Amestrian. Mitya was able to recognize several characters, but some of them could sound completely different from what they would in Drachmani. He still had no idea how long he would be here, but he would love to be able to someday decipher what was in these books.

He had been told, through Colonel Miles, that he was welcome to look through the books, as long as he was careful with them. The small collection of books lying on their sides on top of one of the shelves was another matter, apparently. Andakar seemed of two minds about even pointing them out, but he remarked that they would be of no interest to Mitya anyway.

As grateful as he was, and as much as he respected Andakar and his family, Mitya thought that he was probably the better judge as to what would be of interest to him. Normally, if he was told that something was off limits, he dismissed it from his mind. He did not break rules or go against the established order. To do so would attract attention. But he had come rather far from those days, which really weren't that many days ago, and his curiosity, as well as his boldness, was growing stronger.

Rada's voice called up from downstairs, and the children set their school books aside. Mitya recognized the moment in the daily routine was when they needed to perform their household duties before supper. As they headed for the door, Danika beckoned to Mitya to follow them. He had taken a random book from the shelf and was examining an open page. Smiling back at Danika, he held up a finger, indicating, he hoped, that he would join them in a moment. Danika understood and nodded, following her siblings downstairs.

As soon as he was alone, Mitya put the book in his hands aside and pulled a chair from the table over to the bookshelves. He felt guilty about doing this, but all he wanted was a quick glance. He stepped onto the chair and reached up to the top shelf, carefully taking down one of the books. It looked fairly new. On the black leather cover, there was a strange symbol. It was a cross with what looked like a snake curled around it. Above it floated a small crown and what looked like wings. Mystified, Mitya frowned a little and opened the book. He was unable to read any of the text, but as he turned the pages, he began to feel an odd chill. There many pictures of strange symbols like the one on the cover. Some he recognized. He had seen them tattooed on Andakar's arms. This was a book about alchemy. Glancing up, he saw that two of the other books had similar symbols printed on the binding.

Mitya looked back down at the book in his hand and closed it. Andakar may have been wrong about whether Mitya would be interested in these books. But now that he knew what they were, he wasn't sure whether he wanted to know any more. Or did he? It scared him just a little. He had been taught that alchemists were unnatural creatures who used strange, arcane powers to wreak devastation or supply their own greed. He had first heard about them when he was much younger and the idea had frightened him. Thinking back on it, it was most likely anti-Amestrian propaganda. But alchemy existed, nonetheless. Alchemical books sat on the shelf of a man he had come to respect. He could not imagine Andakar doing anything that wasn't right and honorable, but he did perform some sort of alchemy on him. Mitya's curiosity flickered and flared, a sensation that he was familiar with but one that he tended to stifle. He wasn't sure whether he should now.

Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, Mitya quickly placed the book back on top of the others. With his heart beating, he made a show of peering with great interest at the books on the shelf below, and this was how Danika found him. She laughed a little and once again beckoned to him to follow her. Grateful for the company and for a return to what was normal and natural, he went with her downstairs.

He assumed that he would be joining the others in doing chores, but when they got downstairs, Andakar and Colonel Miles were there. They seemed to have been waiting for him.

"There you are!" Miles said in Drachmani, holding out a somewhat battered book. "I thought you might find this useful."

Mitya looked at the cover of the book, the title of which was Drachmani/Amestrian Dictionary, printed in both languages. With a little gasp, Mitya practically snatched the book from Miles' hand. With an apologetic little grin at the colonel, Mitya opened it up and flipped through the pages. An entire world suddenly opened up in front of him.

"Bol'shaya spasibo!" he breathed. He looked back up at Miles. "Thank you!"

"I'm glad you like it," the colonel replied.

Mitya went back to work through the pages a little more slowly. Almost immediately, and with a sense of being an omen, he came to a page where the top entry was the word alchemy.

" _Alkhimia_ ," he murmured.

Miles exchanged a glance with Andakar, who was looking over Mitya's shoulder.

"Interesting choice," Miles remarked in Drachmani.

Mitya looked up at him. "I was…curious."

"I have to say, I am, too."

Mitya thought for a moment, a troubled frown on his face. Then he made his decision. "Would you please ask _Zhaarad_ Andakar a question for me?"

Miles nodded. "Go ahead."

Mitya looked at Andakar then back at Miles. "Is he an alchemist?"

* * *

That was really a loaded question. Miles wouldn't presume to answer for Scar. "He wants to know if you're an alchemist," he translated simply.

Scar looked down at the boy and Mitya returned his gaze steadily but with apprehension as well as curiosity. Scar glanced around. His children were either outside or in other parts of the house, busy with their chores. Rada was in the kitchen. Scar himself was in charge of keeping an eye on Timothy. He reached down and scooped the toddler up in his arms.

He nodded toward the front door. "Let's go outside."

He led them out into the courtyard in front of the house. Miles wondered how long this might take. He was expected back home for dinner shortly, but he was needed to translate and he also considered that what might pass between Mitya and Scar would be of interest to General Armstrong. He was also interested in what Scar had to say for himself.

They stopped next to the fountain. No one was out in the cul-de-sac at the moment; everyone was engaged in their various pre-supper occupations indoors. Scar turned to Mitya with an intent look.

"Why did you ask that question?" He didn't sound as though he was particularly surprised.

With Miles translating, Mitya pointed to the tattoos on Scar's arm, which were just visible above the end of his sleeve.

"Because of those," Mitya replied solemnly.

Scar considered the boy for a moment, then he handed Timothy to Miles. He rolled his sleeves up farther to reveal more of the array. Mitya examined them a little more closely with a small frown.

"When I first came here, you did something…you…used alchemy on me," he said. He looked up to meet Scar's gaze. "Didn't you?"

Scar nodded. "Yes, I did. And you were given no explanation, which you deserve. I apologize for that."

Mitya gave a slight nod, acknowledging Scar's apology but more anxious for the explanation. "What did you do?"

Scar let out a quiet sigh and held his arms up again. "These tattoos represent a hybrid of Amestrian alchemy and Xingese alkahestry." At Mitya's puzzled look, Scar explained. "Both of these cultures, each in their own way, practice the channeling of the earth's energy to produce a certain effect. Alchemy is not magic. Its practitioners regard it as a science. For many, it is a lifetime's study, and each person has their own reasons for pursuing it. Yes, it has been used as a weapon and yes, there have been many abuses."

Scar waited for Miles to finish translating before going on. "What I performed on you that day at the fort had no actual effect on you, only me. When I held your hands, it created a circle, forming the necessary connection. I was able to read your emotions."

Mitya looked a little startled and worried, but he caught on. "Because you needed to know if I was telling the truth."

"That's right." He regarded the boy somberly and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I will tell you that I read a number of other things, which I will keep in confidence."

Mitya gazed back at him, just as somberly, if a little puzzled.

"But to get back to your question," Scar went on. "Am I an alchemist?"

"Are you?" Miles couldn't help asking.

Scar glanced at him, a little annoyed. Miles didn't care. "Yes and no."

"Oh, come on!"

Scar ignored Miles and addressed himself to Mitya. "Over the past few years I have begun to study alchemical theory. Certain events in my past, some of which I had no control over, put me in the position of having to learn how to use this array." He nodded at his tattoos. "I had to learn very quickly, and my knowledge was patchy but sufficient for the purpose." He lifted his shoulders slightly. "I won't go into what would be a very lengthy explanation—"

"Too late," Miles remarked under his breath.

Scar shot him a glare. "—a very lengthy explanation as to how all this came about. It was not necessarily of my own choosing, but it has become a permanent part of me. I don't actively practice alchemy, not the way others do, but I felt it was time that I understood it better. And that," he said in conclusion, "is where I now stand."

Miles looked at him carefully. "Is that the truth?"

"I don't tell lies," Scar answered him curtly. He regarded Mitya with closer intent. "Has this been troubling you?"

Mitya glanced at Miles as he translated. He looked back at Scar, and he nodded. "I…I looked at one of those books in your library," he said hesitantly. "The ones on the top. The ones you…you didn't want me to look at. I'm sorry."

Scar raised an eyebrow and he looked like he was trying not to smile. "The temptation of the forbidden is always the strongest," he murmured. "I suppose I should have known better." Now he allowed himself to smile. "Don't be troubled by any of this, Mitya, all right? And if you really want to look at those books, you have my permission. Now why don't you go back inside and see if Rada has anything for you to do."

Apparently satisfied and a bit lighter of heart, Mitya nodded. "Thank you, _Zhaarad_ Andakar!" he said in Amestrian.

The two men watched the boy go back in the house, perusing the pages of the dictionary. "You think maybe you've got a future alchemical scholar on your hands?" Miles remarked, only half in jest.

Scar scoffed. "What is his future, Miles?" he asked. "Does he have one?"

Miles frowned. "Don't give me that! He's probably got a better future now than he had before."

"Let me tell you something, my brother." Scar took Timothy back from Miles' arms. "In whatever time we have afforded to us, I intend to teach that boy how to not be anyone else's pawn. Not the Drachmans' and not General Armstrong's."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Miles answered him with a slight, grim smile. "He certainly doesn't need alchemy to do that."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a couple of sub-plots going on here. They more or less tie in with the main plot and hopefully do not detract from it. Basically, I had a couple of other ideas that needed a home. I'll be reintroducing members of the Armstrong clan from Pigeon Pie.

"Eat, boy!" Shua set a plate of eggs scrambled with flatbread in front of Dejan.

Dejan pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry, Dad. My stomach's all tied up in knots."

"I'll tie you in a knot." Shua pushed the plate back. "You used to nag me to distraction to get me to eat."

"That was back when we didn't have much to eat," Dejan replied, pushing the plate away again.

Shua pushed the plate back again. "Thank Ishvala we do now. So eat!" He poked his finger into the stubborn expression on Dejan's face. "I have a lot of friends coming for this wedding, and I don't want you embarrassing me by falling over in a dead faint when you walk your daughter to the altar."

It was the quiet phase of the morning. Naisha and Shayur had gone to school and the members of Dejan's troupe that still lived under his roof had left for their various occupations. Dejan sat at the head of the table, considering his breakfast with some disinterest. Mika and Stoyan sat at the other end of the table, working on Stoyan's dissertation. As seemed to be the case wherever Stoyan happened to be at the time, they were surrounded by books and papers. Mika was alternately tapping away at a portable Corona typewriter and touching heads with Stoyan as they poured over his copious notes.

Olivier sat at the middle of the table. She smiled into her cup of tea as she considered father and son out of the corner of her eye. They still looked more like older and younger brothers. Either way, they were as close as two sides of the same thought. In Olivier's opinion, and Shua's as well, Dejan was taking his daughter's upcoming marriage a little too hard. It was exactly what he had wanted to happen, but the fact that Mika and Stoyan would be moving away was taking a toll on his emotions.

At Shua's remark, Mika looked up, as though only just reminded that her father was sitting at the same table. She gave a soft little cry and jumped up from her chair to hurry to the head of the table and put her arms around Dejan's neck.

"Please don't be so blue, Dad!" she exclaimed. "You know we'll be back for good once Stoyan's got his Ph.D.!"

Dejan sighed and patted her arm where it rested on his collarbone. "I know, baby, I know. It's still a hard thing."

"And you're making it hard on your daughter with all your moping," Shua reminded him. He set a bowl of freshly made _rezhmi_ , a condiment made of tomatoes, onion, and dark green hot peppers, next to Dejan's plate. This batch was particularly hot, since Shua had included the seeds from the peppers. He didn't do much cooking, but he had one or two specialties, and he knew Dejan would find it hard to resist his _rezhmi_. "They'll be back before you know it. You know how brilliant our Stoyan is."

" _Djaari's_ right, Dad." Mika briskly patted her father's shoulders and returned to her seat.

Dejan managed a resigned half-grin as he spooned the _rezhmi_ onto his eggs. " _Hai_ , Stoyan! Didn't you tell me that one of your university friends said that Ph.D. stands for 'piled higher and deeper'?"

Stoyan nodded with a wry little grimace. "That's what it feels like sometimes."

There was a minor flurry outside the front door, the sound of rickshaw wheels and hurried footsteps. A moment later, Sophia burst into the kitchen.

"My dears!" she exclaimed breathlessly. She stood gazing at them all, her cheeks flushed and a few stray hairs dangling over her forehead. She had a cream-colored envelope in one hand and one of her response cards in the other. She brandished them before her. "You simply won't believe it!"

"What's wrong, Mother?" Olivier looked at her with mingled concern and dread. Sophia Armstrong was such a bulwark of strength (a trait she had passed down to her daughters) that for her to be so flustered, whatever it was could indeed be dire.

Dejan got up quickly to pull a chair out for Sophia, which she sank into. Shua promptly set a cup of tea in front of her.

"Thank you!" Sophia breathed gratefully. She took a gulp of tea to brace herself.

"You'd better tell us what's up, Sophie," Shua suggested. "Then we can judge whether to believe it or not."

In reply, Sophia mutely held out the response card. Olivier took it and looked it over quickly. "Holy crap!" she muttered.

Shua moved behind her and read aloud over her shoulder. " _I'm sure you'll excuse the late notice_ —oh, we will, eh?— _but you really couldn't expect me to make such a decision quickly. I really couldn't make up my mind. I finally decided that I ought to see for myself what all the fuss is about. Boudicca_."

Shua straightened up. "Well, that's cheek!" he remarked. "She's not bringing her brother along, is she? One slice of Ham did me for a lifetime."

"This is Phillip's family you're talking about, right, _baata_ Sophie?" Dejan asked.

"Yes, dear," Sophia replied wearily. "And no," she said to Shua. "Hamilcar didn't even reply, which is about what we expected."

"Well, thank Ishvala for that," Shua replied emphatically.

"Quite," Sophia agreed. "Among any number of other reasons, Filetta's coming, which would be terribly awkward all by itself, but she's bringing her new husband." She brightened momentarily. "You know, she married that rather dashing actor, Ronald Grainger!"

Shua nodded with a grin. "I know. I've had them over to my place a couple of times."

"Good heavens, Shua! You move in the most interesting circles!" Sophia then relapsed in distress. "But…Boudicca!" she exclaimed. "I never imagined she would ever set as much as a toe onto Ishvalan soil!"

"Well, we are starting to get fashionable," Dejan said. "I knew it would happen someday."

"Fashionable among academics and people of culture," Sophia corrected. "Not so much amongst Boudicca's set."

"I don't know about that," Dejan replied. "We've got all sorts showing up. I don't think Ishval's seen a gathering like this ever. We've got high-ranking military, members of Parliament, college professors, movie stars, even foreign royalty, including that kid who's staying with Andakar."

Olivier gave a little uncomfortable stir. She had almost forgotten about Dmitri. "I'm not entirely sure he qualifies," she murmured.

"Well, that could be it right there," Sophia said, wagging a finger and arching an eyebrow knowingly. "I'll bet Boudicca somehow got a whiff of who was going to attend." She shook her head. "She has an odd idea of how life should be enjoyed. Being one up on her acquaintances seems to be one of her favorite pastimes. She must be running out of gossip fodder."

Shua laughed. "Oh, we'll give her something to take home with her!"

"Yes, I daresay." Sophia threw her hands in the air. "And of course she waited until the last minute to let us know she was coming! I'm going to have to rearrange my household to accommodate her because she'll expect everything to be ready and waiting for her! Bella and Sim will be coming out, not to mention Catherine and Galahad!" She turned to appeal to Dejan. "Could you possibly put up Alex and Sim here? It's a terrible imposition, I know—"

"Of course we can," Dejan assured her. "We can shift around for a few days."

"Thank you so much, dear! That way I can move Seb and Bella into Alex's room—I'm sure they won't mind—and I'll be able to put Boudicca into the big guest room."

Shua sat down next to Olivier. "Why don't you just throw down some fresh straw and put her up in the old caravanserai," he suggested, jerking his thumb in a relatively easterly direction.

Sophia chuckled. "That's very wicked of you, dear. And I'll thank you not to put ideas in my head." Her smile faded. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her hands, something she never did, certainly not at someone else's house. That was the effect Boudicca had on her.

It was a little disturbing to Olivier to see her like this. She leaned forward and took one of her mother's hands. "Don't get so upset about this, Mother. If Boudicca wants to barge in here and throw her weight around, she'll get whatever's coming to her." She smiled grimly. "This time, we'll have the home court advantage."

Sophia returned a squeeze of her hand, but she looked not entirely consoled. Shua turned in his seat and reached into a cabinet behind him, drawing out a bottle of brandy that he had bought before he left Central. He poured a generous dollop into Sophia's tea and gave her a sly wink.

She smiled up at him, picking up her cup. "You're really quite wicked, my dear."

* * *

The last couple of days had seen a burst of activity, both inside of the governor's house and outside. Several young men and women were out weeding early spring shoots from the courtyard formed by the cul-de-sac, and a number of the paving stones were being repaired. Inside, Rada had alternately been cooking, cleaning, and sewing. Mitya contributed his services by keeping an eye on Timothy. After school, Danika went back and forth from the study to her mother's workroom. The whirring of the treadle sewing machine could be heard, along with the occasional giggle from Danika or some crisp instruction from her mother. Winry was able to take the liberty of slipping into the work room to monitor the progress of what was taking shape. Mattas just rolled his eyes, and Turyan snickered behind his book.

As deeply interested as Mitya was in his new dictionary, he found himself more and more curious about what was going on in the other room. Col. Miles had mentioned only briefly that there was going to be some sort of ceremony to mark Danika's fifteenth birthday, as well as a wedding, and there was going to be a lot of people converging on Ishval over the next couple of days. Mitya wasn't sure he was looking forward to that.

At one point Danika burst into the study and held up a cream-colored dress that had its sleeves, neck, and bottom edge covered with intricate embroidery. She was very pleased with it and held it against herself under her chin. Mitya had seen Rada working on it in the late evenings ever since he got here, but he didn't know what it was until now. The pale fabric made a pleasing contrast against Danika's tawny skin, and Mitya found himself nearly blushing that he was even thinking that. He hoped nobody noticed.

A little later, just as they were getting ready for supper, Andakar came home. He was carrying a box under one arm, and after greeting his wife and fending off K'shushi, he presented the box to Danika. With a little surprise and with mounting excitement, Danika set the box on the round table in the front room and opened it. With a deep gasp followed by an ecstatic cry, she took out a pair of shoes. They were almost like slippers, made of tooled red leather with yellow and white beads stitched on them. Clutching the shoes to her chest, Danika jumped up and down, laughing and nearly crying. Then she threw her arms around her father, who seemed gratified by her reaction.

Mitya had to look away for a moment. He was happy for Danika, and seeing her so happy was a delight all by itself. But the closeness and completeness of the bond she had with her father stirred a small pang of bitter sorrow deep within Mitya. It was a relationship that he would never again have. Memories of his parents, one memory in particular, came to him almost unbidden, and the happy voices around him seemed to grow muffled as a dark shade passed through his mind.

While Danika and her siblings admired her gift, Mitya slipped quietly down the hall and out into the back yard. He sat down on one of the benches that stood against the house and rested his head in his hands. He had recalled a brief moment, one he thought he had put out of his mind, that had taken place not that long before the factory accident. He had gone to bed in the front room that served as the living room, dining room, and his bedroom. He had been awakened by what he thought was simply the urge to use to toilet, but as he passed his parents room, he heard what he thought was muffled crying. The door was slightly ajar because it was a stifling summer night. Mitya crept silently closer and peeked into the room. There was no light on in the room, but a street light shone through the open window.

His parents were sitting on the edge of the bed. His father sat with his head clutched in his hands. He was the one who was crying. His mother had her arms tightly around him, but her comfort did not seem to console him. What impressed Mitya was that his father's distress was not sorrow, but fear. He wasn't sure why he was certain of that, but he was. He went on to the toilet, feeling shaken. When he came back, his parents were lying still on their bed, apparently asleep, and the next morning, no one remarked on the incident. But Mitya's father carried a somewhat haunted look after that.

Did Father actually know more about his heritage than he let on? More importantly, did others know? It wasn't too long after this that the munitions factory blew up. Was it an accident? Mitya clutched his head, a dim reflection of his father that night. Part of him had not wanted to believe what he had recently learned about himself. Until now, he was not entirely convinced that somebody, somewhere, wasn't laboring under some grotesque delusion that others had gotten caught up in. But perhaps it was all too real.

He had always been fairly good at forcing away unpleasant realities. The less the pattern of his life changed, the easier it was to do. Even now, during the few days that he had been in Ishval, he had begun to fall into a more or less comfortable routine, despite the mystery of what his future held. He had chosen to stay in Amestris, which is what seemed to be expected of him, but he was fairly sure that his ultimate fate was still in the hands of others.

A step made him raise his head. Andakar came and sat down beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Although they could not really communicate, the expression on the Ishvalan's face was one of concern. 

Mitya looked up into the man's scarred face. He emanated power and authority that few people questioned and that inspired confidence and security. But there was a sad look behind those crimson eyes. He knew something that he was either unwilling or unable to impart to Mitya. There was so much Mitya wanted to tell him and to ask him, but even if he could speak Amestrian, he wasn't sure he could even put it into words. But perhaps he didn't need to.

He held out his hand and met Andakar's gaze with a tentative, pleading look. After a moment, Andakar nodded, understanding. He took Mitya's hand between both of his. The boy gazed down at their clasped hands, his pale one enveloped by the two strong, brown ones. He didn't feel anything other than the warmth of Andakar's skin. He thought he might be able to help by sorting out his troubled emotions, but he gave up, trusting Andakar to try to make sense of them.

After a time, Andakar, who had been sitting quite still, gave a stir and let out a quiet, weary sigh. He released Mitya's hand and put an arm around him, holding him close. He began to speak, not in Amestrian, but in his own Ishvalan tongue. He spoke quietly and at some length, to himself rather than to Mitya. There was a certain measured cadence to his words, and after a few moments, it struck Mitya that Andakar was praying. It felt a little odd, but it was comforting. Then again, for Andakar to be stirred to do such a thing could mean that he had come up against the limits of his own authority and was invoking a higher one for Mitya's sake. Mitya couldn't help but hope that whatever or whoever that authority might be, if indeed it existed, it was listening.


	15. Chapter 15

Stretching his limbered muscles, Scar walked down the hallway from the back of his house toward the kitchen to start heating the kettle, part of his early morning rituals. Before he got there, though, he paused, then he turned to go upstairs to the study. Entering this room, he glanced around, wondering if he would even find what he was looking for. But Mitya's dictionary was sitting on the table where it had been left the night before.

Scar picked up the book and leafed through it for a few moments. Taking a pencil and a sheet of paper from the children's supply, he went back downstairs to the kitchen. Danika was already there, filling the big tin kettle at the sink. She looked back over her shoulder.

"Good morning, Papa!" she greeted him.

He stepped up behind her and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. "Happy birthday, little blackbird."

Danika giggled. "Thank you."

"You're up early," Scar remarked, going over to the table.

"I know. I was too excited to stay in bed!" Danika replied with a little laugh. She carried the kettle to the stove and took down the box of matches. Lighting the flame, she set the kettle over it to start boiling and then got down the box of tea and the big red teapot. As she waited, she sat down at the table as Scar took a seat on the other side.

"Isn't that Mitya's?" she asked as Scar opened up the dictionary.

"Mm-hm." Scar turned several pages and came to the one he was looking for.

Danika watched him as he frowned slightly at the page. "What are you doing?" She smiled. "Are you going to teach yourself Drachmani?"

A little smile pulled at Scar's mouth. "Perhaps one day. Right now I'm just looking for a word. A phrase, really, although I don't know how the grammar is structured."

He had found the entry for the word _worry_. Next to it, in parentheses, were the words _be troubled_. That was really closer to what he wanted to find, which was fortunate. Now, how to turn it into the phrase he wanted. He read through the entry, which actually gave examples of certain phrases: _She is very worried about her son's health. What are you worrying about? Don't worry about that_. The word ending changed slightly according to who was being addressed, so Scar took an educated guess as to the particular form he was looking for. He picked up his pencil and as precisely as he could, he copied out two words onto a sheet of paper.

Danika leaned across the table. "What does that say?"

"I have no idea how it's supposed to be pronounced, but it should mean don't worry, or better yet, don't be troubled. It's not necessary for me to be able to say it, as long as it makes sense."

Danika looked up from the paper to her father's face. "Are you going to give that to Mitya?"

Scar inspected his handiwork and nodded.

Danika regarded him somberly. "Does he have a lot to be troubled about?" Scar looked back at her, somewhat hesitantly, but she added, "Please tell me, Papa!"

Scar set the paper down. His adopted daughter, as dear to him as his own flesh and blood, had not only matured, but unlike her siblings, she was no stranger to hardship. She had a little more experience in the ways of the world at its worst, even if she was only small at the time. "I believe he does, _laleh_. I'm not even sure he knows just how much he should be troubled."

"Is he—" Danika's brows puckered. "Is he going to have to go away?"

"Probably."

"When?"

"I don't know. That's up to General Armstrong."

Danika consider this answer gravely. "She's trying to keep him safe from the Drachmans, isn't she?" she asked, a little uncertainly.

Scar folded the paper. "As far as she is able to, yes, or so she says. You remember what you learned in school about Drachman history, don't you?"

Danika nodded. "They were ruled by a king until eighteen eighty…" She grimaced a little as she thought, then resumed. "Eighteen eighty-four, when there was a revolution, and now it's governed by a centralized, authoritarian, single-party leadership," she finished proudly.

"Yes, that's right," Scar replied. She always was a good student.

"Was the king really that bad?"

"That depends on who you ask, I suppose," Scar said. "Those who overthrew him certainly thought so. They executed the entire family except for a couple of people who were possibly not considered a threat." He met his daughter's gaze. "Mitya is the very last surviving member of the Drachman king's family."

Danika's eyes widened. "Are you serious?" she breathed. "You mean, he's a prince?"

"Well…" Scar gave a slight shrug. "I'm not sure if he could actually be considered that, but the late king's blood certainly flows in his veins."

"Kind of like you, Papa! Your family was related to the prince of Ishval!"

"Only by marriage," Scar corrected her. "And the royal line ended with the Great Earthquake. I make no claim to it."

Danika frowned again with worry. "So are the Drachmans after Mitya? Would they really come all this way?"

"No, I'm sure they wouldn't." Scar considered his next words carefully. "What may happen, though, is that Mitya will be sent back to Drachma and, with the help of General Armstrong's agents and any supporters those agents can find, will somehow either reestablish the monarchy or help inspire others to overthrow the government."

Danika's mouth dropped open. "But…that's terrible!" she protested. "It's so dangerous! He could—" She glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. "He could get killed, Papa! He shouldn't have to do it! The general shouldn't make him do it! Can't you stop her?"

Scar rubbed his forehead. "I had this same discussion with your mother. No, I can't, as much as I wish I could. But my hands are as good as tied." He reached out and took one of Danika's hands in his. "General Armstrong does not mean for Mitya to come to harm if she can possibly help it. She truly wants him to succeed, one way or another." He wasn't entirely convinced of that, but it would be less upsetting for Danika. "She has assured me that she will do everything in her power to make sure he is in the safest hands that can be found."

"But he's just a kid! He's my age!"

"And this very day you're standing on the threshold of adulthood. Don't you think you could do great things?"

Danika scowled doubtfully. "Not that great."

"I think you might surprise yourself. I think Mitya could surprise everyone. He might even surprise himself. To that end," Scar said, picking up the paper he had written on and holding it up, "I mean to teach him to not be afraid and to believe in himself." He squeezed Danika's hand. "Didn't I teach you that?"

A smile stole across Danika's features. "You did, Papa."

* * *

Mitya took the piece of paper Andakar held out to him and unfolded it. Written in precise Drachman characters were the words don't be troubled. Mitya gazed at the words for a moment, then looked up at Andakar. The Ishvalan nodded toward the paper and said something, then tapped his ear, which Mitya took to mean that he wanted to hear the words spoken.

" _Nye byespokoytyes_ ," Mitya said, not bothering to refer to the paper.

Scar put his hands firmly on the boy's shoulders and held his gaze firmly. " _Nye byespokoytyes_ ," he repeated, rather well, in Mitya's opinion.

It was easy enough to say, less than easy to do. But this wasn't just anyone who was speaking those words. This was a man who Mitya was sure would not lie to him, whatever language he spoke. Even without speaking, this man inspired confidence. He was physically powerful, he held a position of authority, he argued fearlessly with General Armstrong, he had a family that loved and respected him, and he could summon the very power of the earth.

Mitya smiled and folded the paper up small, resolving to keep it as a kind of talisman. If a man like this told you to not be afraid, how could you do otherwise?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon characters! Yay. There will be OCs, though, the members of the Armstrong family that I either introduced or mentioned in Pigeon Pie (you can refer to the character list at the beginning of Chapter Three of that fic.)

"Are we there yet?"

"Okay, you know what?" Ed leaned forward on the edge of his seat to put his face at the level of his small son's. "This time I can say with all honesty…just about!"

Urey Elric gave an incredulous start. "Really?"

Ed sat back and folded his arms. "What? All this time you thought I was pulling your leg, and now you don't believe me? Look out the window." The train began to slow down as it approached Ishval Station.

Urey scrambled to his feet on the wooden bench seat, grasping the edge of the open window, the breeze ruffling his golden hair.

"Careful, sweetie," Winry cautioned him. She didn't actually think he was going to fly out the window, but her maternal instincts were fiercer than usual since she was carrying their third child.

Ed was more inclined to let his children be adventurous. He figured they would have a better understanding of what their boundaries were if they pushed at them a little. Even so, he made sure he was close by to prevent serious injury. He'd gotten pretty adept at fatherhood, in his opinion. He had managed to give his kids what he'd never had—an unbroken, secure, complete family. It came from a sense of utter necessity, but also from just a bit of stubborn pride.

He would always be conflicted about his own father, the man who had absented himself for years but who had given his life—his immortal life—for his sons. Among other things, it was a hard act to follow. Ed supposed, but was reluctant to admit, that he had some more positive role models, although he considered Mustang too indulgent and Scar too smothering. Ed felt he was doing a decent job. Sure, he goofed things up every now and then, but who didn't?

"I wanna see!" Nina stood up on the seat and crawled over Ed's lap. Being younger and shorter, she couldn't quite reach the edge of the window, so Ed held her up. Her blue eyes grew wide and she breathed out a soft wow.

"I see the cactuses now," Urey observed, craning his neck a little to see further down the track. "Can you see the cactuses, Uncle Al?"

Alphonse had been gazing alternately between the view outside and his baby daughter Jia-Li, sleeping in Mei's arms. He himself had Xiao Mei, who wasn't fond of train travel, sleeping in his lap. "I sure can. We're just about there."

Urey nodded. "Uh-huh! You can tell, 'cause it's warm, too!"

"It's much warmer crossing the Great Desert," Mei reminded them, patting Jia-Li's back softly. She smiled. "His Celestial Majesty must be breaking into a sweat," she added hopefully.

"He probably packed a load of ice," Ed remarked with a smirk.

"Must be nice being emperor and having your own train," Winry sighed, fanning herself with a train schedule. "And it's still only spring."

* * *

Several rows down, another passenger waved a fan at herself. She was dressed in rather more layers than anyone from a place like Resembool would dream of putting on, but she was a woman of a certain school of thought. Boudicca Armstrong Lafayette scowled out the window, once again trying to remember at what point she thought this would be a good idea.

The moment she was informed that there were no first-class cars on the train to Ishval, she should have abandoned the enterprise altogether. Fortunately, she had the foresight to pack a couple of cushions. She had no idea what she might be forced to sit on once she reached her destination. It was bad enough sitting in the same car with all the assorted riff-raff who were exactly the sorts of people who would be traveling to a benighted place like Ishval.

Well, they were, perhaps, not all riff-raff, she allowed. Sitting across from her were her niece Catherine and her husband, Galahad Something-Or-Other. They had greeted her pleasantly enough, but they were rather young and silly and did not properly appreciate the sacrifice she was making. They themselves had actually chosen to settle out in the desert. Galahad seemed to think that a second-in-command posting at a small, dusty fort (probably just a couple of mud brick bungalows and a few stray dogs) was a positive movement in his career.

The desert was a place people avoided. It was bereft of life and comfort and good breeding. People didn't thrive there; they merely existed because they were unable to live anywhere else, being Ishvalans. She could not conceive why her brother would want to take up residence there, either, even for part of the year. Perhaps he thought he was being rugged and adventurous. She herself was far too mature, sensible, and refined to be having adventures. Her only consolation was having her friends all agog at the horror stories she had already begun to collect. How envious they would be! The thought brought a thin smile to her features.

She glanced across the aisle at her maid, Higgins, and she frowned a little. She had originally thought it would be prudent to bring someone young and hardy to face the rigors of this expedition. But the girl was entirely too interested in her surroundings.

The entrance of the conductor made Boudicca jump. "Ishval Station!" the little man bellowed, striding quickly down the aisle. "Ishval Station, connecting to points east, if you're so inclined! Please make sure you have all your belongings and your kids and other assorted critters 'cause I'm not takin' any more home with me!"

The other passengers, including Catherine and Galahad, chuckled, but Boudicca's scowl deepened. These railway people were becoming entirely too impertinent and familiar. She could only imagine what ghastly horrors awaited her when she got off the train.

* * *

Command Sergeant Major Augustus Benjamin looked up at the crystal blue sky overhead. It was one of those perfect, cool, dewy mornings that only happened at certain times of the year in Ishval. Spring and fall were only transitional periods that took place while summer and winter battled for supremacy, so you had to enjoy them while they lasted.

"Nice day for a wedding," Benji remarked out loud. "Ishvala must be mighty pleased about this particular setup."

Colonel Miles gave him an indulgent look. "I don't think Ishvala pulls strings on the weather."

"Then how come we pray for rain every year?"

"Because we're human and we like to cover our butts." Miles turned to his adjutant. "Look at it this way, Benji. Bad weather makes us all the more thankful for good weather."

"Builds character, huh?"

"Yeah."

"It's still a damn nice day."

Miles nodded and chuckled quietly. "Thank Ishvala."

The scent of Philosopher's Blend wafted through the air as a man stepped up beside them, an ebauchon briar pipe held between his teeth. Dr. Sebastian McNeese, head of the Archeology department at East City University, gazed down the railroad tracks. He adjusted his somewhat battered fedora and let out a sigh.

"Enjoy this fine weather while you can, gentlemen," he remarked. "It's about to get heavy. Hurricane Boudicca is about to make landfall."

Benji grinned at him. "I think she's a little more like your personal plague, sir. You know, for digging up the sacred ruins of old Ishval," he said impishly. He tapped his forehead in a casual salute. "With all due respect."

Seb raised an eyebrow. "Due respect? From you?"

"That's why I, for one, am really looking forward to this train," Miles said. "I finally get my brand new second-in-command. Then Benji here can learn a little humility by getting demoted to errand boy."

Benji cleared his throat. "With all due respect, sir," he said with pointed emphasis, "I'm already your errand boy, and I was never second-in-command, so not much is really gonna change."

"And you'll probably never be humble."

"Not if I can help it…sir."

A few minutes later, the black engine could be seen curving around the final bend in the tracks, its brakes beginning to squeal. The train slowed as it approached the platform and the station came to life. A number of young men stepped out of the station building, ready to help unload passengers, baggage, and freight.

Once the train came to a stop, the first passengers that stepped off boasted of familiar golden hair. Benji let out a laugh.

"We were wondering when you'd show up!"

Ed stepped onto the platform and turned to help his pregnant wife step down. "Hi, Benji!" Winry greeted the sergeant, a former Resemboolian. "How's your family?"

"Growing!" Benji replied with a proud grin. "Just like yours, it appears. Dang! Alphonse too!"

"Hello, Benji! Colonel!" Alphonse waved, then reached up to take his daughter so Mei could step down. Xiao Mei waddled down the steps from the train and let out a yawn.

Miles planted his fists on his hips and looked down at Nina, who was peering shyly from behind her father's automail leg. "Well, look at you! Last time I saw you, you were this big!" He held his forefinger and thumb a couple of inches apart.

Nina's eyes widened a little, then she decided this was a little too much to take in at once, and she hid her face.

Ed shrugged. "She's a woman of few words," he said. "Her brother's another story." He nodded toward Urey, who had already launched into a detailed description of his trip for Benji and Seb.

"He'll fit right in," Miles remarked.

"It was very kind of you to invite us to stay with you, Colonel Miles," Mei said.

Miles bowed his head. "The pleasure is mine, Princess," he replied. He turned to Ed. "Which reminds me. You're still more than welcome at Andakar's place, but they just took in another stray."

Ed looked over at Al, who shrugged. "Nothing to do with me."

"No," Miles went on. "This one's got two legs. He's a Drachman kid."

Ed's brows went up. "What? He'd didn't have enough kids so he imported one?"

"No, it's…a long story. Anyway, they just wanted you to know that it'll be just a little more crowded than it would have been."

"Oh, we'll manage just fine," Winry said cheerfully. "The more the merrier!"

Ed gave Miles a dubious look. "'Merry' is a word I don't associate with the governor of Ishval."

Miles smirked in agreement, then looked past Ed at another set of passengers getting down from the train. He stepped forward. "Miss Catherine!" he said to the young woman who was alighting first. " _Doishteve na Ishval_!"

"So good to see you again, Colonel Miles!" Catherine replied with a smile that looked a little strained. She looked around quickly and let out a breath of relief as Seb came forward. "Uncle Seb! Thank goodness!"

"Goodness, I think, has very little to do with it!" an imperious voice behind Catherine declared. Boudicca stood in the doorway of the train and surveyed the area with a jaundiced eye. "Sebastian, your hand, if you please."

Catherine moved quickly out of the way as Seb helped his sister-in-law down. "Hello, Boudicca!" he said, kissing her cheek. "How lovely of you to join us. I've got the car to whisk you away once we get your bags."

Boudicca gave him a dour look. "I do not _whisk_ anywhere." She waved vaguely behind her. "The bags are coming."

Appearing at the door of the train was a young woman in somber black clothes, a suitcase in each hand and two more clamped to her sides under each arm.

Sebastian darted forward. "Here! Let me get those!"

"I'm awfully obliged, sir!" Higgins breathed. She surrendered two of the bags to Seb and glanced behind her. "There's more."

Standing in the doorway was a stack of luggage with a pair of blue-uniformed legs. They were long legs and were able to navigate slowly but surely onto the platform. From somewhere behind the luggage a voice spoke. "Colonel Miles! Captain Brodnax-Fitzgeoffrey reporting for duty! Your pardon, sir, as I am unable to properly salute!"

"At ease, Captain," Miles replied easily. "Benji, give the captain a hand."

The sergeant had already moved and began relieving Galahad of his burden. "Yoru!" he yelled over his shoulder toward the station building, making Boudicca jump. "Roll one of those carts over here!"

A young Ishvalan man wearing a green railway uniform jacket over his Ishvalan clothes wheeled up a luggage trolley, which was soon filled to capacity. Setting the last of his bags down, Galahad straightened up and turned to Miles again, snapping a sharp salute, which Miles returned.

The colonel extended his hand. "I'm glad you were finally able to make it to Ishval, Galahad."

The young captain grinned. "Me too, sir!"

Benji nearly flinched at the glint of sunlight that flashed off Galahad's brilliant teeth. The fellow was tall, broad-shouldered, and elegantly handsome. Even after a long train trip, he didn't have a speck of dust, a single crease, or as much as a stray hair on his uniform. Benji did a quick straightening and brush off of his own uniform and snapped to attention as Galahad turned to him.

Benji saluted. "Command Sergeant Major Augustus Benjamin!" he introduced himself. "Errand boy extraordinaire! Hope you like it here! Gets pretty toasty in the summer."

"Oh." Galahad's returning salute paused for only an instant before reaching his forehead. "Thank you, Sergeant. I'll bear that in mind."

Seb stood next to the luggage trolley, looking it over doubtfully. "I think we'll have to make two trips."

"No worries, _Zhaarad_ Seb," Yoru replied. "I'll have one of my crew drive the rest over."

Boudicca drew herself up. "Mind that you don't damage anything!" she warned darkly.

"I'll treat 'em like they were one of my babies, _Zhaarana_ ," Yoru assured her, wheeling the trolley toward where the Armstrongs' car was parked.

While Boudicca glared after the young man, Sebastian spoke to her. "Boudicca, this is Colonel Miles, commanding officer of Fort Ishval. Colonel, may I present my sister-in-law, Boudicca Armstrong Lafayette."

Miles extended his hand. " _Doishteve na Ishval, Zhaarana_ Lafayette."

Boudicca regarded him coolly, taking his fingers briefly between her first two fingers and her thumb. "How do you do?" She turned back to her brother-in-law. "We'd best get started, Sebastian, or we'll be late for luncheon. Where is the car?"

Seb swept out his arm. "Your chariot awaits, my lady!"

Boudicca moved on in the direction he indicated. "Don't be flippant, Sebastian! Come along, Higgins!" she snapped at her maid.

Seb started after her then paused and looked back at Catherine and Galahad. "I think you two are with me."

Galahad turned to Miles, who said, "You're not actually on duty until Monday. Go ahead and get settled with your folks."

Galahad gave a parting salute. "Sir!" Then he and Catherine hurried after Seb.

When they had gone, Benji shook his head. "What a piece of work!"

"Which?" Miles asked. "The old lady or the new captain?"

Benji gave a laugh. "Both. For different reasons, of course. She's pretty much self-explanatory. The captain … well, sir, I didn't think they'd made 'em like that anymore. Kinda puts a fella to shame."

Miles let out a snort. "Speak for yourself, Sergeant."


	17. Chapter 17

Urey had already thundered up the stairs with Mattas and Turyan, K'shushi bounding up after them. Scar crouched down on one knee and let Nina take her time inspecting him from around Ed's leg.

"I spent a lot of time holding you when you were here last," Scar told the little girl. "You were only a few months old then."

Ed let Nina take her time, too, ready to intervene if the Ishvalan's scarred features or anything else about him frightened her. But she was regarding Scar with a cautious fascination, which was more than a lot of people got out of her.

Ed would never quite get it. Maybe there was something about the man's sheer solidness that inspired trust. Maybe there was something reassuring about the tone of gentle warmth that Scar reserved for these moments—he had certainly never used it on Ed. But there was just something about this guy and kids.

Speaking of which…

"That ginger kid outside, the one helping with the chairs. The short, skinny one. Is that the Drachman kid you took in?"

"That sounds like him."

"Miles filled me in about him."

"Really? Miles usually isn't that free with information."

"He must've figured I'd find out one way or another. So, what's up with that?" Ed demanded. "You're just gonna bend over for the system?"

Scar sighed and straightened up, touching Nina's head gently. "This is the system that you and I fought to protect, isn't it?"

Ed frowned. "I fought to protect the people I love. Didn't you?"

Scar met Ed's hard look. "Of course I did. But the system came with it. And then I became part of that system, for my sins." He glanced down at the silver chain that was just showing out of Ed's pocket. "You still carry your watch, I see."

"Yeah, well…" Ed tucked the chain out of sight. "I still need to tell what time it is. I don't roll over and play dead for the military, though."

"Neither do I. But I have to weigh the consequences of my actions. That being said, I have no intention of going down without a fight. I just have to be more subtle."

Rada came bustling in, a load of diapers fresh from the clothesline in her arms. She shoved them into Scar's arms and stooped down to take Nina's face between her hands. "Look at you!" she squealed. "Aren't you precious!"

Nina was a little startled, but there was very little about Rada that was threatening, so she submitted to the attention. Ed laid a reassuring hand on his daughter's head anyway, just in case. "Yeah, she's getting to be a big girl. Urey tore upstairs with your boys. I guess I'd better check on him."

"Well, if you both can figure out who's going to sleep where, that would be helpful." Rada stood up and turned to Scar. "We'll need those army cots from the workroom." She looked back at Ed. "Winry said…" Rada paused and laughed. "Sorry. _Our_ Winry said she'd be happy to let your Winry sleep in her bed, since she's pregnant. We could even bring down one of the boys' beds and put them together, if you like. That way you can be together. Our children won't mind sleeping on cots or even out here, for that matter." She gestured toward the cushioned benches.

"Look, are you sure we shouldn't just get a hotel room?" Ed asked. "I feel like we're putting you to a lot of trouble."

"Oh, no! You must stay with us!" Rada insisted. "Besides, Shua said he's booked solid."

"We'll all be just fine." Winry came out from the hallway, having matched Timothy's smaller steps. "It's more fun this way."

Ed smiled and shrugged. "If you say so."

Nina and Timothy found each other fascinating and stood staring at each other. Nina pointed at the little boy, who was a little smaller than her. She looked up at her father. "Bebe!" she breathed, eliciting another squeal from Rada.

"I can keep an eye on them," Winry suggested to Rada. "You probably need two free hands right about now."

"Yes, I do!" Rada breathed in a sigh. "So if you'll excuse me, I have to go see how they're doing outside. As she headed for the door, she looked back at Scar and nodded toward the laundry in his arms. "Just toss those on the bed—"

There was a loud thump from upstairs, followed by a burst of laughter. Rada glanced up at the ceiling. "Actually, check on that first, would you?"

Scar was already turning toward the stairs with Ed close behind him. They reached the source of the disturbance, which was from Mattas' room. Three boys lay in a pile on the floor between the beds, helpless with laughter. K'shushi stood on Turyan's bed, barking and waving his feathery tail.

Mattas sobered for just a moment as he looked up. Then he pointed at Scar. "Ooh, are those Timothy's poopy diapers?"

The boys disintegrated into hysterics once again. Scar and Ed exchanged looks, momentarily struck with just how much they had in common these days.

Scar dumped the diapers onto Mattas' bed. "Fold those and then put them in the basket downstairs."

Mattas let out a groan. "Aww, do I—"

"Yes."

Assured that no one was injured, the two adults left the room. Ed followed Scar as he went to collect the folding cots. As they headed for the work room, Ed paused at the open door of the study then walked in. He skimmed the shelves, which contained books with both Amestrian and Ishvalan titles on their bindings. Ed scowled for a few moments, then looked up. _Alchemy Reexamined_ by Edward Elric was lying on its side on top of the bookcase.

"Huh!" he said out loud. "That figures."

"What figures?" Scar called back from the workroom, sounding a little like he didn't really want to know.

"I see you've got my book gathering dust up there. Did you even read it?"

Scar appeared in the doorway, a folded army cot hanging from each hand. "Yes, I did. I wasn't aware that you were expecting a treatise on it." He set the cots down against the wall near the door and went over to the bookcase. He reached up and took the alchemy book down, handing it to Ed. "As you can see, there is no dust on it."

"I could have reached it myself, you know," Ed muttered, taking the book. "So why do you keep it all the way up there?"

Taking the book back, Scar opened the front cover to display the words Ed had written on the endpaper: _Yes, I can write, you damn bastard! Regards, Edward Elric._

"Maybe you use that kind of language around your children, but I don't," Scar explained.

Ed thought it was pretty tame compared to what he could have written. "Of course I don't cuss around my kids!" he replied indignantly. He added in a mumble, "On purpose. Okay, fine." He tapped the book with his finger. "So, what did you think?"

"I was impressed. Your style is very concise."

Ed's eyebrows went up. "Wow. A compliment!"

Scar gave him a wry look. "I was surprised at how accessible you made the subject. What little other material about alchemy I've come across stuck me as being somewhat detached from humanity and purposely obscure."

"Yeah! See, that's just it!" Ed agreed eagerly. "That's what I was trying to get away from. I was trying to make alchemy less scary and more, well, human, but without dumbing it down." He grinned. "So, are you inspired?"

Scar put the book back on top of the shelf. "To do what?"

Ed gritted his teeth in frustration. "Come on! You _know_ I'm talking about alchemy!"

"It's not foremost on my mind." Scar went back to where he had left the cots and picked them up. "I'll admit to some curiosity," he continued with some reluctance. "But it's primarily academic. As is yours," he added.

Ed waved away the comment. "Yeah, yeah, I know that, of course! But…" He paused for a moment. It had taken him a few years to be comfortable having any conversation with Scar. Once he'd gotten to that point, he had wanted to have this particular conversation for a long time. He got the feeling that Scar knew that and had been avoiding it for just as long. "Don't you realize just how unique your alchemy is?"

Scar's glower darkened and he looked like he wanted to whack the younger man over the head with several pounds of army surplus wood and canvas. "It's been mentioned."

"Exactly! You've got a perfect hybrid of—"

"What are you doing up there?" Rada's voice came from the foot of the stairs. "Andakar, did you find the cots?"

"Yes, I did," Scar called back. "I'm just seeing about the bed." He went back down the hall to stand in the doorway of the boys' room. "You boys decide who wants to give up his bed to Uncle Edward while they're staying," he told them.

Mattas jumped to his feet. "Is he gonna sleep up here?"

Ed couldn't help feeling smug about being so popular. "Sorry, fellas," he said, leaning into the room. "We're going to move the bed downstairs so I can be with Auntie Winry."

Mattas and the other boys grouped into a huddle where they conferred in whispers and snickers. The words "kissing" and "ewww" could clearly be made out.

"Decide now or I'll decide for you," Scar warned them.

"Oh, wait, wait, wait!" Mattas said quickly. He and Turyan faced each other and engaged in a quick battle of rock, paper, scissors, best two out of three, from which Mattas emerged victorious, much to his delight. Turyan didn't seem to mind much.

A few minutes later, the same trio of boys and one dog who had clambered up the stairs came down just as noisily. Behind them were two men maneuvering a mattress down the stairs.

"So like I was saying," Ed started up again. "Your alchemy is unique and you ought to make a more detailed study of it."

Scar shook his head impatiently and looked behind him to make the turn in the staircase. "Oh, peace, Edward!"

Ed followed him. "I'm not a peaceful person, Scar. Neither are you."

"Yes, I am."

"Oh, horse—" Ed caught himself, looking over the railing to where the boys were sitting on the bottom couple of stair steps. They were making enough noise of their own and probably weren't even paying attention to what the grown-ups were doing. Still, you could never tell. "—phooey!" he finished.

Scar paused to turn and give Ed a look. "Horse phooey?"

"Well, you know…" Ed jerked his chin toward the boys. "Gotta watch it around the kids, you know."

"You managed to write and publish a book and you can't express yourself better than that?"

Ed just scoffed. "I'm just saying, I don't believe you. I mean, all the domestic bliss is great. It's wonderful, honestly!" He grinned and lowered his voice a little, leaning toward Scar. "But every now and then, don't you kind of miss the old days? The danger? The excitement?"

Scar stared incredulously. "You aren't serious."

Ed shrugged. "It sure wasn't boring."

"I like boring," Scar said firmly, taking the next few steps backwards. "I like peace. I like structure and order."

"Oh, maybe you _think_ you do," Ed smirked.

"No, I'm sure." Scar looked behind him. "You boys need to move," he said as he neared the bottom steps.

"Go outside in the back," Rada told them as she and Winry arrived at the foot of the stairs. They each had the others' youngest perched on their hip. "Take K'shushi with you."

The boys hopped off the stairs and ran down the hall to the back of the house with K'shushi scrambling after them. The men got down to the bottom of the stairs and moved aside as Rada and Winry started upstairs.

"What do you think, Rada?" Ed asked. She was a lot easier to talk to.

Rada paused between steps. "About what?"

"Your husband here claims he's the peaceful sort, but I think down deep he's a powder keg."

Rada considered her husband for a brief moment, then smiled impishly. "In bed, he is."

Winry burst out laughing as she followed Rada up the stairs. "Wow, Ed, you walked right into that one!"

Ed flushed to the roots of his golden hair and shot a glare at Scar, who had a subtle smirk on his face. Somehow, bringing up alchemy again would seem badly timed. But he still had a few days. He wasn't done yet.

* * *

"Dejan!" Shua hissed. "Dejan!"

Dejan looked up from the floor distractedly. "Huh?"

Shua pointed at his son's chest. "Do you notice anything?"

Dejan frowned and looked down at himself. "What…no…oh, Ishvala!" he groaned. With irritated, impatient movements, he pulled off his coat and threw it for Shua to catch. Then he untied his carefully tied _chuva_ and threw it after the coat. Then he pulled his shirt off over his head and turned it right side out.

Shua watched him critically as he pushed his arm through his sleeve. "This is getting just a little past a joke, son."

Dejan snatched his _chuva_ out of Shua's hand. "It's no joke, Dad," he grumbled. "I'm just nervous."

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"No." Dejan flung the _chuva_ his shoulder and wrapped it around his waist, then he fumbled with the knot. "Damn it!" he muttered, pulled the knot apart and starting again.

Shua rolled his eyes and reached toward him. "Here, let me."

Dejan smacked his hands away. "I can do this just fine!" he snapped. "You don't even wear one!"

"'Cause they're overrated," Shua replied, undeterred. "I can still tie a simple knot."

Dejan let his shoulders slump and surrendered to his father's ministrations. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't worry about it," Shua said easily. "Just do me a favor and eat something."

"I will. I just haven't had time."

"You've had all morning. Everyone else is doing all the work." Shua finished tying a neat knot and handed Dejan his coat. "Make me proud, Dejan."

Dejan shrugged into his coat. "I will, Dad. Don't worry. Once we get started, I'll be fine." He drew himself up and grinned. "A bit of bread and cheese and I'll be set!"

He strode out of his room and went downstairs with a light step. Shua went out into the hallway, where he met Olivier. She was in her dress uniform, complete with her family saber.

She jerked her chin toward Dejan's retreating figure. "He looks in better spirits."

"He does." Shua put his arm around her and kissed her temple. He sighed. "He's going to be a mess, though. On my soul, he will."


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are going to concentrate on Mika and Stoyan's wedding and on Danika's fifteenth birthday ceremony, a sort of Ishvalan version of a _quinceanera_.

"Come in!"

Scar opened the door the Danika's room and stepped in. Danika had spent the last few hours alone here. She had been excused from all the hustle and bustle of preparations in order to have some quiet time for reflection on her childhood as well as her impending adulthood. "Adulthood" was something of a subjective term, Scar thought. That was no discredit to Danika; she was a mature young person, but it would be a long time, if ever, before he would stop thinking of her as his little girl.

Danika drew in a quick breath. "Is it time?"

Scar shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Oh, good! Because Mama said she'd help me braid my hair."

Scar happened to know that Rada was outside conferring with the Armstrong's head butler, Jeffers, about the arrangements. "I can help you," he offered.

Danika considered him a little uncertainly. "It's a lot of little braids," she said.

"Haven't I braided your hair before?" Scar reminded her in an affectionately chiding tone. "And your sister's."

Danika held up a long streamer of narrow, multi-colored ribbons. "Can you braid these into my hair?"

Scar smiled. "I think I can manage."

Danika smiled back and moved over to let Scar sit beside her on the bed. She handed him her hairbrush and tied the streamer of ribbons tightly to the top of her ponytail. "There," she declared, turning so that her back faced Scar. "Do a braid for each ribbon, please."

Scar considered the task before him. It was a simple enough thing to do, but he knew he had to do it not just to Danika's satisfaction, but to Rada's, who might have preferred to do this herself. He gathered a section of Danika's dark hair and one of the ribbon strands and began to carefully weave them into a braid. Danika's hair was quite long, so it took a few minutes. As he neared the end, Danika handed him a piece of yarn that had two small beads threaded onto it. Scar tied it around the end of the braid.

He held it up so Danika could see it. "Is that all right?"

Danika gave a little gasp. "Papa, that's perfect!"

"That's good to know." Thus encouraged, Scar started on the next braid. "Are you nervous?"

"No," Danika replied, keeping her head still. "I'm excited, but I'm not nervous."

"Did you decide on what you'll part with?"

Danika pointed to a shelf on her wall. "I'm going to pick Rosalee."

Scar glanced up from his work to the shelf where Danika kept a small collection of dolls and stuffed animals, of which Rosalee was the oldest. The rag doll had been sewn together and her features embroidered by Rada when Danika was still small.

A customary part of a fifteenth birthday ceremony was for the girl to pick some toy or childhood keepsake to give to a younger child. The gesture represented parting with her childhood, and the choice had to be a significant one. Scar knew that Danika was very fond of Rosalee, and it had been a choice between the doll and Petal, the stuffed elephant that Jean Havoc had won for her the first time Circus Chimera came to Ishval. Danika had decided to give Rosalee to Miles' little girl Mira.

Scar worked the second ribbon into Danika's hair. "Do you remember what to say?"

"Mm-hm. I've been practicing all morning. One of my friends at school said that her sister wrote the words on the palm of her hand."

Scar laughed quietly. "She wouldn't be the first," he said. "There were quite a few fifteenth ceremonies I officiated at where the girls did just that."

Danika let out a little giggle. "Did Mama do that?"

"Oh, no," Scar replied. "She knew her prayer by heart." He smiled at the memory. He marked that day as the day he fell in love with Rada.

Danika was silent for a while, then she said, "Papa, do you miss being a priest?"

Scar's hands stilled for a moment. It was a fair question, one that had crossed his mind more than once. This was the first time anyone else had asked him. At one time, his heart burned to be nothing but a priest, to lead a simple life of service and humility and to pass that fire on to the young. Events violently changed what he thought was the course of his life, and he devoted himself to yet another, much different, but just as single-minded purpose. That life, in turn, came to an end, and much to his surprise, a new one began.

"No," he said finally. "The life I lead now is the one I think Ishvala meant me to live."

Danika turned her head only slightly. "How do you know?"

"Because I didn't seek it out," Scar replied, smiling to himself. "It sought me."

* * *

Dressed in his new clothes, Mitya stood to one side of the cul-de-sac near Andakar's house, observing the remaining preparations. After a few brief instructions translated by Col. Miles, he had been enlisted to help set up tables and chairs around the perimeter of the area, leaving the center open. Having finished that, there was nothing left for him to do, and he was feeling a bit extraneous.

Guests were starting to arrive, both Amestrian and Ishvalan. Mitya was already able to recognize a number of the locals. Havoc, the blond man from the store in the marketplace, arrived with his Ishvalan wife and three small children. He gave Mitya an approving thumbs-up as he passed by, probably for his clothing. There was a large, varied group of Amestrians who he had learned were General Armstrong's family. There was an Ishvalan man whom Mitya had seen a couple of times with an Amestrian woman whose dark hair had two streaks of pink on either side of her face. They arrived with two young boys. Then there were the two families that had arrived yesterday and were staying with Andakar and Col. Miles. The household had to be rearranged to accommodate them. A folding cot had been moved into Mitya's room, which he was now sharing with Turyan. The father of this family, introduced as Edward Elric, seemed to spend a lot of time getting into brief, intense conversations with Andakar. Most of the other guests, who were arriving by twos and threes, had travelled from elsewhere.

In front of the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, a sort of stone pedestal was being set upright by two young men. Two other men, one bald and aging but quite hale, stood nearby, talking quietly with each other. The older man held a shallow brass bowl in his hands, which he placed on top of the pedestal once it was in place. The other man opened a wooden box he was holding and poured its contents, which looked like small, pale brown rocks, into the brass bowl.

Col. Miles had explained briefly what would be happening today. There would be two ceremonies. One was the wedding of the granddaughter of General Armstrong's husband, Shua, to the young man Mitya had met on the train coming here. The other ceremony was for Danika's birthday. She was turning fifteen, which held a special significance. The colonel had said only that it was a coming-of-age ritual. Mitya already knew that Danika was preparing for something about which she was very excited. Rada had made her a new dress and Andakar had given her a new pair of shoes. But he had yet to even see her that day.

Behind Mitya, the door of the house opened and Andakar stepped out and came to stand beside him for a moment. He patted Mitya on the shoulder.

"How are you?" he asked.

Mitya had been intently studying his dictionary and had already picked up a number of basic phrases. He smiled and gave a nod. "I am well," he replied in Amestrian, adding, "Thank you." He was pleased with how well he was able to pronounce that _th_ sound now.

Andakar nodded approvingly and turned his attention to the activity out in the cul-de-sac. He murmured something under his breath, and it was a little hard to tell whether he was pleased with what he saw. He seemed more resigned than anything. The front door opened again and their visitor, Edward Elric, stepped out and joined them. He clapped Mitya on the shoulder and said something that he didn't quite catch but was probably some sort of greeting. Mitya simply gave a nod in return.

Edward stood with his arms folded, surveying the scene before them. He and Andakar engaged in a conversation that started out cordially enough but which escalated into what sounded like a minor debate. Edward seemed to be trying to make some sort of point to which Andakar made terse, impatient replies. Mitya flinched a little when the word alchemy came up. Andakar listened to Edward briefly but not necessarily willingly. Mitya was a little puzzled. Although a guest in Andakar's house, it was unclear just how much these two men liked each other.

* * *

"I thought you were a scholar," Ed remarked, a little sarcastically. "To me, that means seeking out knowledge."

Scar sighed inwardly. Edward had been in Ishval for only a few hours and his presence was already starting to wear. "Of course it does. But I don't have as much leisure as you appear to have."

"I don't have any leisure! I've got a family to raise, a house to take care of, a bunch of animals to look after—"

"Hm! According to Winry, she's the one who does most of that."

Ed shot him a glare over Mitya's head. "I help!" He gave a shrug. "I have a book to promote so I have to do some traveling. I also have research to do for my new book."

Scar raised an eyebrow. "Really? You mean your work isn't the last word on alchemy?"

Ed seethed a little. "No. There may never be a last word on alchemy. It can evolve. You're proof of that, in case you weren't aware."

Scar quickly shot him a suspicious look. "You aren't planning on including me in your writings, are you?"

"Ha! You wish!" Ed replied curtly. He gave Scar a grudging look. "But it'd be interesting as hell."

Scar's look darkened. "That's the problem." His attention was caught by something out in the cul-de-sac and he motioned toward it with a jerk of his chin. "There's Mustang."

Ed peered out into the growing crowd. The brigadier general had indeed arrived, along with his family. "So it is," he replied without much enthusiasm. "Here to do some more campaigning?"

"If he is, he still wouldn't be as much of a pest as you are."

"Tch! You're a riot. And what do you mean, 'that's the problem'?"

Scar shook his head impatiently and moved out into the cul-de-sac. "Later, Edward!"

Ed followed him as they went to meet the newest arrivals. A small figure in a pink dress came running straight up to Scar, and he crouched down to gather her into his arms.

"Hi, Uncle Andakar!" Christina exclaimed gleefully.

"Hello, little one!" Scar greeted her.

Christina stepped back and gave a twirl. "Do you like my new dress? Auntie Chris got it for me! Isn't it pretty?"

Scar flicked a look up at Mustang, who merely beamed with pride. Riza raised a slightly wry eyebrow but said nothing, probably biding her time. It would be a shame for a child so young to become vain and spoiled so soon.

"It's very nice," Scar replied carefully. "But the little girl inside it is more important. Are you doing well in school?"

Christina stilled her twirling and regarded the big Ishvalan solemnly. She nodded. "Uh-huh!"

"Of course, she is!" Roy added. "She's brilliant!"

Scar straightened up with a hint of a smile on his face. The words _I wasn't asking you hung_ unsaid in the air. "That's very good," Scar said to Christina, who dimpled at his praise.

Edward held out his hand.

"Haven't seen you in a while, Brigadier."

"No, indeed," Mustang replied, shaking the younger man's hand. "I enjoyed your book, by the way. Some interesting insights."

"Thanks!" Ed replied, fairly pleased. "I've begun compiling notes for a new work."

"Well, that ought to keep you out of trouble," Mustang remarked.

"Or start trouble," Scar added.

Ed ignored both comments and turn to the former lieutenant. "Hi, Riza!" he said warmly. He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. "It's great to see you again. How's work?"

"It's doing well," Riza replied. "We've awarded ten scholarships already this year, and we're getting ready to plan our annual spring fundraiser."

Riza was the chief executive officer of The Bradley Foundation, which was what The Ishval Foundation had been renamed a number of years ago. Since Ishval was no longer in need of special funding, the philanthropic foundation had expanded to support the underprivileged in all parts of Amestris. Although Mrs. Bradley had renamed it after her late husband, the foundation was more closely and, as far as Scar was concerned, more properly associated with her. Riza ran it with strict military precision, and no one slacked on their paperwork.

"There's going to be a silent auction at the gala," Riza went on. "Would you be willing to donate a signed copy of your book?"

Ed brightened. "Sure, I would!"

"It ought to bring in some chump change," Mustang said.

"Be careful how you sign it," Scar warned.

Ed opened his mouth to offer a stinging retort, but Mustang spoke to Scar. "That young fellow over there, is that our Drachman wonderboy? I heard about him from Fuhrer Grumman. I'd like to meet him."

Scar glanced back over his shoulder. Mitya stood where they had left him. He didn't look quite so small and forlorn as when he first arrived, but neither was there anything robust about him. Scar's protective instincts rose like the hair on the back of his neck. Mustang might not share General Armstrong's particular agenda, but he could certainly have his own.

Scar dismissed the thought the moment it appeared and led the way back to Mitya. "He already knows a little Amestrian," he said. "He's a quick learner."

"From what I hear," Roy said, quietly grim, "he'll have to be."

"The whole thing stinks!" Edward muttered.

"Nothing's happened yet," Scar reminded them.

Mitya watched them approach, managing to not look too apprehensive.

"Mitya," Scar began, "this is Brigadier General Roy Mustang." He spoke just slowly enough for the boy to follow easily. "This is his wife, Riza, and this is his daughter Christina."

"Hi!" Christina piped up, waving. "What's your name?"

Mitya smiled a little. "Dmitri Ivanovich Otrepyev," he replied, and his smile grew as the little girl's dark eyes widened. "Mitya," he added.

Roy chuckled. "He's a little old for you, sweetpea."

Riza gave a slight roll of her eyes and extended her hand to Mitya. " _Ochyen priyatno_."

Mitya looked a little surprised, but took her hand. " _Mnye tozhye_."

"Can Danika and Winry and Mattas and Turyan come out and play?" Christina demanded. She had completely lost interest in what the adults were doing.

Scar looked back down at her. "They'll be out soon. They're getting ready. But this isn't a time for play."

Christina pouted and was about to open her mouth to protest, but her mother stepped in. "You can play later, sweetie," she said with quiet firmness.

"But it's a birthday party!" Christina argued.

"It's not that kind of a birthday party," Riza explained.

Christina folded her arms glumly. "You mean it's a grown-up party?" She pronounced the words with ill-concealed distaste.

"Not exactly," Riza replied. "But you have to act like a big girl, all right?"

"'Kay!" Christina muttered, resigning herself to the situation. But after looking around, already bored, she suddenly brightened. She waved. "Attar!"

Attar, who was approaching with his family, waved back. He was walking alongside Miles, who was pushing Zulema in her wheelchair. His sister, Mira, walked on the other side, her hand on the armrest of the wheelchair. Vesya completed the company with little Prosper in her arms.

Greetings and salutes were exchanged. It had not been that long since the Mustangs had last been in Ishval. The only one who had changed much was Prosper, who had only recently turned one.

Roy turned to look at the growing crowd of people. "This is shaping up to be quite an event," he remarked.

Scar surveyed the scene, concerned rather than impressed. It was just too many people. Most of them had been invited by Shua, who had been ageing a large quantity of _halmi_ over the past six years in anticipation of an occasion like this. The Armstrongs had ordered wine and champagne. At least he would know who to blame for damage or bodily injury.

"Is there gonna be birthday cake?" Christina asked Attar in a loud, intent whisper.

The boy was regarding her with slightly shy awe. "There's gonna be lots of honey pastry," he whispered back, looking as though he hoped it would please her.

Christina's mouth dropped open. "Honey pastry?" she gasped. "I love honey pastry!"

Attar smiled. "Do you wanna sit with me?"

Christina nodded. "Let's go!"

The two children grabbed each other's hand and were about to run off toward the tables when their father's combined voices brought them to a halt.

"Stay close, you two!" Miles called out just as Roy warned them, "Be careful!"

"We will," Christina assured them. Attar nodded in agreement and they both disappeared.

Roy frowned as he watched them as slip through groups of adults. "I'd better catch up with them," he said, moving after them.

Riza gave Miles a slight smile. "Your son is a no nonsense kind of man."

"Like his father," Miles replied, returning her smile. "And your daughter's a charmer, by the way."

Riza followed after her family. "I don't have to tell you where she got that from."

Zulema squinted after the departing children. "You'll need to keep an eye on those two," she prophesied ominously.

"Which two?" Miles asked with a grin. "The big ones or the little ones?"

"Eh-h! You imp! You know which ones I'm talking about!"

Vesya gave a little dismissive shrug. "Oh, now, _baata_!" she chided. "They're just little children. Playmates."

Zulema gave a quiet, smug chuckle. "From such children come other children. But does anyone listen to me? Alas, no!" she sighed.

"Come along, _baata_ Zulee." With a shake of his head Miles began to roll the wheelchair away. "Let's find you a nice spot where you can keep out of trouble."


	19. Chapter 19

Miles wheeled Zulema to an area where a mature _meskaa_ tree offered shade and a good view of the altar from behind. Zulema preferred this angle; she would be able to see the faces of the bride and groom as well as the _khorovar's_ daughter. Much better than the face of the priest who, good and worthy man though he was, had performed these ceremonies hundreds of times. To the young folk, this was all fresh and new and long-awaited. Zulema would much rather see the glow of their faces as the grace and blessings of Ishvala showered down on them this day.

She let out a sigh.

"Are you all right, _baata_ Zulee?" Miles asked as he reached down to flip the wheel locks into place.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she replied. "I'm just put in mind of my own youth. My own fifteenth and my own wedding, which followed not long after, you know."

"I know, _baata_ ," Miles said with a smile.

Zulema sighed again. "I was such an eager young bride! And my Zahar was so handsome!"

"You make me wish I'd been there." Miles stepped around to face her. "Can I get you anything?"

Zulema waved her hand. "No, no, I'm fine. I've got my knitting to keep me busy until the ceremony stars. You run along now. You have duties to perform."

"All right." Miles started to turn away but paused. "Ah. It looks like you may have some company."

"Oh?" Zulema looked off to her left to see a small party approaching. _Zhaarana_ Sophia she recognized, the mother of that general who married that _vatrish_ who was father to the _vatrish_ who was the father of the bride. Who the bride's mother had once been was another question entirely and better left unasked as far as Zulema was concerned.

But _Zhaarana_ Sophia was a fine woman, a _lady_ , as the Amestrians would have it. She was gratifyingly proper and very respectful and pleasant to talk to. Of the others with her, Zulema recognized only _Zhaarad_ Sebastian, who was busy poking around the sacred ruins of Old Ishval. The idea made her uneasy, but he was also a rather proper fellow in his own way. He would often come to visit to sit and talk with her, asking her about the old days (not as old as Old Ishval, surely, but she certainly knew a thing or two).

There was an older woman walking beside Sebastian, holding his arm. The woman was casting her eyes about but trying to look like she wasn't. Behind her was a young woman in a black dress who was carrying an armload of things, a cushion and a blanket of some sort. Was she planning on sleeping through the ceremony?

"Good afternoon!" Sebastian called out as they approached. He turned to the woman beside him. "This looks like a likely spot, doesn't it, Boudicca?"

The woman looked at the tree and its shade and at Zulema as though she was not of the same mind. "Does that sort of tree drop things?" she asked suspiciously.

"Not so much this time of year," Miles explained.

The woman had such a sour look to her, Zulema thought, and for a moment she rather hoped the _meskaa_ would drop something nasty on her.

"Let me grab a couple of chairs." Sebastian went to one of the nearby tables and took a couple of chairs, carrying them back. He set one of them near Zulema's wheelchair and the other a few feet behind. "There we are!"

"Boudicca, this Colonel Miles' Aunt Zulema," Sophia said. "Quite a venerable lady. And she makes the loveliest wool shawls!" She turned to Zulema with a smile and held out her hand. "How are you today, my dear?" she asked.

Zulema clasped her hand warmly. "I am well, praise Ishvala for his mercy to let me live to see yet another wedding!"

"You and me both, dear. Zulema, this is my sister-in-law, Boudicca Armstrong Lafayette," Sophia went on. "And this is her very first visit to Ishval!"

There was something spry and clever in the way she said that, and considering how this Boudicca Armstrong Lafayette didn't much look like she was enjoying her very first visit to Ishval, Zulema guessed that Sophia was just as pleased. Zulema tried not to smile too broadly as she regarded the newcomer.

" _Doishteve, Zhaarana_ ," she greeted her solemnly.

Boudicca looked down at her without a returning smile. "How d'ye do?" she said in a tight-lipped sort of way.

Zulema didn't think she needed to reply. She had already announced the state of her health. She merely gave a nod of her head.

Boudicca cast another eye around the cul-de-sac. "When does this affair begin?" she asked, sounding like she was ready for it to be over.

"In about twenty minutes, I believe," Sophia replied. "So I'd better go see where my brood has gone to, if you'll excuse me."

Both she and Sebastian left rather quickly, and Zulema pulled her knitting from the bag she'd been holding on her lap. Boudicca let out a sigh. "Higgins!" she growled.

The young woman wearing black stirred into action, having been poised to do so, it seemed. She draped the blanket on one of the chairs and then arranged the cushion on the seat. _A servant girl?_ Zulema wondered in mild distaste. _Well now, aren't we giving ourselves airs!_

As soon as Sophia and Sebastian disappeared into the crowd, that vatrish Shua came sauntering over. He spread out his arms. "Auntie Boudicca! I didn't know you'd be here! Thank you so much for gracing my humble home!"

Boudicca recoiled a little and her scowl went even more sour. Shua then turned to Zulema. "Zulee- _laleh_ , my beauty!" he exclaimed. "Will you dance with me later?"

Zulema scoffed. "Go on with you, you magpie!"

"Ah, now, don't be cruel!" Shua crouched down in front of her wheelchair and continued, this time speaking in Ishvalan, using the sort of lilt in his voice to make what he said sound improper. "If this old lady gives you any grief, poke her in the eye with one of your needles." He leered impudently and pinched her knee.

Zulema stared at him for a moment, then smacked his hand. "I'll poke you in the eye, silly bird!" she snapped back, taking care to reply in Ishvalan. "Don't worry about me. I can give as good as I get."

"Ah, you sly wench!" Shua laughed in an unwholesome sort of way. "Wouldn't I love to find that out!"

Now, that _was_ improper. " _Eh-h_ ," Zulema cried. "You young devil!"

She took a swipe at him but he hopped backwards out of harm's way. As he stepped away, he set the heel of his hand on top of his head, his fingers fanned upward like a cockscomb. "Ku-ku-ri-kuuu!" he crowed.

"Distasteful, low person!" Boudicca muttered, saying the word person as though she didn't know what else to call him.

Zulema gave her a sharp look out the corner of her eye. "He has a good heart, for all his insolence and cheek. It's not his fault he comes from such a low background."

Boudicca looked at her, almost startled. Zulema was a little startled herself. Had she just defended the _vatrish_? What was this world coming to?

* * *

"Roy-boy! There you are!" Madame Christmas descended on her nephew in a cloud of expensive Cretan perfume. She kissed him on both cheeks and did the same to Riza. She stepped back to admire Riza's dusty rose skirt and jacket ensemble. "Darling, you always manage to look sultry and business-like at the same time."

"You look rather well yourself, Madame," Riza replied with an affectionate smile.

Chris just smirked a little and adjusted her fur stole. "No, dear, I'm just over-dressed." She glanced around. "Now where's my little angel?"

Roy took a quick look around, having taken his eyes away from where his daughter had gone. "I'm not sure."

"She's right over there by the fountain, next to Attar." Riza, who had never lost her hawk's eye, pointed in her daughter's direction.

Chris peered past some passing guests. "Oh, good, you dressed her in that little frock I sent. Hmm…" she mused thoughtfully. "She looks awfully chummy with that young man. That's Miles' little boy, isn't it?"

"Oh, they're just babies," Roy said easily.

Chris lifted an eyebrow at him. "Did I say they weren't? Mind you," she added, "they're both going to be heartbreakers when they grow up. You'd better hope it isn't each other's hearts."

"Now we're really getting ahead of ourselves," Riza remarked drily.

"Of course we are." Chris looked around, now searching for someone else. "Now where did they go? Ah! There!" She turned around and waved her arm. "Over here!" she called out.

An extremely attractive and stylishly dressed couple approached, causing a lot of turned heads and subdued gasps. "Madame!" the woman exclaimed as she joined them. "You never told me there'd be this sort of crush! This is bigger than the cast party after we wrapped _Willow Tree Lane_! Don't you think so, Ronnie?"

The man nodded. "This appears to be the event of the season. The only thing missing is flashbulbs."

The woman rolled her eyes. "Thank goodness!"

Roy found himself staring. "Are you…" He hesitated, not wanting to sound too obviously star struck.

"My dears," Chris began, rescuing him, "Let me introduce you to two of my favorite projects. Roy and Riza Mustang, this is Filetta Wensleydale and her husband Ronald Grainger. Aside from you two, they're the most gorgeous couple I know."

Filetta offered her hand. "Delighted!" she pronounced.

Ronald shook Roy and Riza's hands firmly. "Madame has told us so much about you!"

Even Riza was a little flustered, and that took some doing. "Oh…really…" She even giggled a little, then she cleared her throat. "I…uh...I didn't know you were friends of the family."

"Shua's family?" Filetta raised an eyebrow. "Well, for one thing, there aren't a lot of people that Shua doesn't know." She lifted a hand to indicate the crowd of guests around them. "This is practically a who's who of Central. I was also briefly connected to the Armstrong family," she added wryly.

Ronald put his arm around her. "Water under the bridge, darling."

"Which is not to say they're not lovely people, mostly," Filetta went on. "But some of them are—" She broke off with a gasp and waved her hand in the air. "Shua! Darling! We made it!"

The lanky Ishvalan strode up and Filetta threw her arms around him. "Darling, congratulations!"

Shua returned her hug. "Thanks, love." He held out his hand to Ronald. "Glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world!" Ronald replied. He took in their surroundings. "This is our first trip here, you know. It's very picturesque."

"My dear, yes!" Filetta agreed. "It's absolutely bursting with charm! Shua, darling, you must introduce me to your granddaughter. She must be lovely!"

"All in good time," Shua replied. "She's tucked away getting ready to become a bride."

"Oh, goodness, yes. Of course." Filetta looked around. "Strictly SRO, I suppose?"

"Until the feasting starts."

"Well, I'm glad I wore sensible shoes." Filetta leaned a little closer to Shua and spoke in a low voice. "I heard an ugly rumor that Boudicca would be here. Was that a joke?"

"No, she's here, all right," Shua said. He grinned a little wickedly. "You should go say hello."

"Not on your life, darling," Filetta replied firmly. "Not even for you."

* * *

At one side of the cul-de-sac, Rada gave Danika once last critical inspection. Scar thought she was as beautiful as her mother was at her fifteenth. Back then, he was dazzled to the point of having to search for his voice to begin the ceremony. Today he was brimming with pride and he could step back, his part completed for now. At this point, Miles and Vesya would take over as Danika's _havaadrii_ , or patrons. It was their role to walk Danika to the altar, symbolizing a release from her parents' supervision, the first step into the community of adults. And right on cue, they appeared at the front door.

Vesya clasped her hands together. "Oh, don't you look lovely!" she breathed.

Miles grinned. "You certainly are a picture, _Zhaarana_ Danika!"

Danika just gave a dimpling smile and a little duck of her head. To actually thank them for the compliment would be considered immodest. It was one of the more difficult parts of this ritual, since the birthday girl was likely to be showered with compliments.

Rada remembered this well. "Just tell people 'you're very kind' and you'll do just fine," she instructed Danika. "Oh!" She dashed into the kitchen and returned with a wreath woven from jasmine and rosemary. She had stored it up on a shelf so K'shushi wouldn't get to it and eat it. "I nearly forgot!" She placed the wreath carefully on Danika's head, where it sat across her forehead. "There. Now you're ready."

Danika took a deep breath. "Now I'm nervous."

Vesya held out her hand. "It'll be over before you know it," she assured the girl. She smiled. "Then you get to have fun."

Danika took a step forward then suddenly gasped. "Rosalee!"

Her sister Winry came running up, holding the doll. "I've got her!"

"You hold onto her," Rada told her. "Then give her to Danika when the time comes."

Winry nodded. "I know."

Mattas came up to join the group at the door. "Hey, Papa, K'shushi's acting funny."

Scar had given no thought at all to the dog for the past several hours. Now he could hear K'shushi barking and whimpering from the back yard. He scowled at his son, not really having any time for this. "He's probably just over-excited."

Mattas looked doubtful. "Maybe. He's just kind of trotting around and barking like he's…I dunno…worried."

"There are a lot of people out front, so he's probably smelling them all."

"Yeah, but…"

"And whatever you do, don't let him in from the backyard. He has a big bowl of water and his blanket. He'll be fine."

Not entirely satisfied, Mattas sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Thankful for what seemed to be the end of that argument, Scar turned back to his daughter, who was just about to be escorted away. He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the top of the head. "I'm so very proud of you, little blackbird."

"Thank you, Papa!"

"We'll see you up at the altar, sweetie." Rada gave her a kiss on both cheeks.

"Thank you, Mama! Thank you for everything!" Danika stepped away, giving a quick sniff and blinking her eyes. She gave her parents a bright, brave smile. "Here I go!"

She left with Miles and Vesya and Scar and Rada stood in the doorway as she walked away.

Rada let out a sniffle of her own. "There was a time I thought I would literally never live to see this day."

Scar put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "I know," he replied softly. He considered that the hardships he endured during the Exile paled in comparison to what Rada suffered, and he was awestruck by her courage. Danika had a brand of courage uniquely her own, and he could not possibly have been prouder of her if she was his own flesh and blood. He sometimes forgot that she wasn't.


	20. Chapter 20

Lan Fan wasn't used to having to excuse herself when making her way through a crowd. Back in Xing, people knew by her uniform to get out of her way. But this wasn't Xing and these people were unlikely to realize that the man walking behind her was His Celestial Majesty the Emperor. It didn't help that he had dressed down and had travelled with her as his only escort.

_This is Ishval, our ally. We're practically family._

That was as may be, not to mention stretching a point a little too far, but there would be a lot of strangers. Guests of Master Shua and the Honorable Khorovar of Ishval, to be sure, but they were still strangers. She was used to His Majesty making her job difficult. On top of that, he brought his two oldest sons with him, boys who were just as curious and mischievous as he was.

_I just want to spend some quality time with my boys away from court. This is their first big adventure!_

The young princes, seven and six years old, respectively, clung to their father's hands and gazed around in wonder. The eldest, Chen, looked a little troubled. "No one is bowing, Father!"

"That's all right," the emperor replied easily. "I didn't expect them to. This isn't a state visit. We're just here to see friends." His Majesty craned his neck to peer over the crowd. "We still need to find some of them."

Between a set of heads and shoulders, Lan Fan spotted a familiar set of golden-haired heads. "I see them, Your Majesty!"

She nudged her way past the last group of bodies and reached out to touch Alphonse's shoulder. The young man turned around and brightened.

"There you are!" he exclaimed.

"Hello! Hello!" the emperor greeted them. The other people around them stepped back to make room for this small family reunion.

"Ah! There she is!" The emperor held out his arms to Alphonse and Mei's baby girl. "Come and meet your uncle, little one!"

Alphonse passed Jia-Li over and His Majesty gathered her into his arms. He bent down with her. "Look, boys! This is your new cousin!"

Chen considered the baby girl for a moment, then asked, "What number is she?"

"Hmm…" His Majesty considered the question. "Let's see. There's you, then Shaozu here, then Quon, Bao-Yu, Hui…" His brow furrowed. "Taking into account the three that are one the way, that puts her at ninth place, but that can change, of course. So her chances are pretty remote." He grinned up at Jia-Li's parents. "Sorry."

Mei frowned and shrugged to show how little she apparently cared. Alphonse just smiled and shook his head. "I think it's just as well. I'd hate for her to have to spend her life dodging all the assassination attempts."

Up to this point they had been conversing in Xingese and Edward looked annoyed. "So, what's all this?"

Alphonse gave him the gist of what they had just said. Edward nodded.

"You and Mei ought to be able to teach her some self-defense skills. Or you should send her off to Teacher," he suggested with a grin.

Alphonse looked doubtful. "I'm not sure I'd wish that on anybody."

"Well, that's a load off my mind!"

The Elric brothers jumped, a bit guiltily, Lan Fan thought. A slender woman with dark hair that fell in ropey locks stepped up to them. Lan Fan had seen her before, as well as her formidably large husband.

"Teacher!" the brothers exclaimed nearly in unison, also a bit guiltily.

The woman drew them into her arms. "I keep telling you that you don't have to call me that anymore."

"We have too much respect for you," Alphonse replied.

"And fear," Winry added with a grin.

Ed shot her a look that was a little sheepish. "Maybe a little."

Izumi, if Lan Fan recalled her name correctly, smiled affectionately at them. "There's nothing wrong with a little healthy fear," she said kindly. "It keeps you on your toes."

* * *

There was a certain comfort in being just another guest among so many. Some simply stood quietly, waiting for the ceremony to being; other chatted in groups of their acquaintances. There seemed to be a number of small reunions going on. The golden-haired brothers were a case in point. They were clustered together with a small but varied group, exchanging hugs and greetings. One member of this party kept slightly aloof, though. The figure was masked, making him or her (Mitya couldn't tell) curiously enigmatic. There was no mistaking the happiness and affection in the faces of the others.

Mitya wondered if he ought to feel a little envious. Perhaps he was. Perhaps a little wistful. He had never really formed such a tight bond with anyone. Well, at least until he came to Ishval. He smiled a little to himself. If he were to leave this place, he could come back and be reunited with a family that he could honestly say he had become a part of. That would feel really good.

Then his smiled faded. For moment he had forgotten that there might be a chance of him never coming back. His future was murky at best, and he wasn't sure where he might end up. He pushed those thoughts aside and wished that things would get started, if for no other reason than to distract him from darker thoughts.

There was a stirring up toward the front of the gathering near where the altar stood. Mitya looked in time to see Andakar and his family moving into place there and to catch Andakar's eye as he made a search of the faces in the crowd. He waved to Mitya, beckoning to join them. Mitya couldn't help but smile to himself over the feeling of belonging that washed over him. He edged his way through the other guests until he stood at Andakar's side. The _khorovar_ dropped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a few pats, then he turned to look toward the back of the crowd, which had begun to part down the center.

At the altar, the priests began to sing, or rather, chant. The older, balding one first, then the younger one joined him in a simple harmony. They went back and forth like that for a few moments, but the attention of the crowd was not on them but on the path that lay open in the center. Mitya craned his neck a little to see what was happening, and then his eyes widened.

This was his first glimpse of Danika that day, and to him, she was transformed. She wore a cream colored coat over a sort of under-dress of the same fabric. Embroidery, predominantly red and gold, could be seen around the neck and the lower hem of the under-dress, but the coat was lavish in its decoration. It must have taken ages to do all that embroidery. Her hair was pulled back and fell behind her in a cascade of narrow braids threaded with ribbon. Around her head was a green wreath with tiny white flowers. On her feet were the red shoes that her father had given her. On either side of her walked Colonel Miles and his wife. Mitya understood that they were her escorts up to the altar rather than her parents, and they seemed just as proud of her.

Mitya was dazzled and as Danika passed him, giving her parents and siblings a fond look, she gave him a smile as well. She looked as though she was trying to suppress a giggle, and Mitya realized that his mouth was hanging open. He clamped it shut and felt his face get warm. This time it was a pleasant sensation.

* * *

"…I offer you, O Creator, my youth. Guide my steps, my actions, and my thoughts. Let me be a woman of wisdom and valor. May I conduct my life with grace and without shame, and grant that I come to You at the end of my days with a spotless heart."

Scar swelled with pride as Danika concluded her prayer, spoken perfectly in the old tongue, without so much as a single crib note scribbled on her palm. Just like her mother. He put his arm around Rada and felt her arm circle around his back. She was probably remembering that day as well.

Danika and Saahad Bozidar beamed at each other for a moment. If anyone could be said to play the role of grandfather to Danika, it would be his old master, even though every soul in Ishval was dear to him. Then Bozidar looked out at the gathered guests.

"This young woman has taken her first steps toward becoming an adult, stepping away from her days of childhood." He spoke in Amestrian for the benefit of those who didn't speak Ishvalan. "But she will keep those days in her heart, honoring those who raised and nurtured her."

The old priest gave Danika a hint of a nod, and she moved away from him to stand before her parents. She stood before them, her eyes shining a little with the hint of tears. Scar could feel his own eyes begin to sting.

She bowed low to them and in turn took their hands in hers and touched them to her forehead. "Accept my deepest thanks for your love and guidance, honored parents," she said solemnly, adding apart from her practiced speech in a softer voice, "I love you both!"

Rada just pressed her fingertips to her lips, a little too moved to trust her voice. Scar spoke for them both, his own voice a little husky. "We love you so much, little blackbird!"

Danika dimpled at them, then turned to Winry, who was still dutifully holding the rag doll. She stepped up to her older sister and with a little bow, handed it to her with grave ceremony. Danika returned her bow and took the doll. She moved back toward the altar, where Miles and Vesya stood. She bowed to them, touching their hands to her forehead.

"Accept my deepest thanks for your counsel and support, revered _havaadrii_ ," she said, adding, "And thank you for being the best aunt and uncle ever!"

Miles grinned warmly at her as he bent down to kiss her cheek. "Don't tell Auntie Naisha that."

Vesya hugged her. "We're so proud of you, sweetie!"

Danika stepped back and held up Rosalee. "Mira?" she called to her little cousin.

Mira, who had been standing with her brother and with Christina Mustang, stepped forward with a look of suppressed excitement. Danika looked down at her.

"I want you to have Rosalee," she said. "She was my first ever doll and best friend. Will you take good care of her for me?"

Although still quite young, Mira understood the gravity of this old tradition. She gazed up at Danika and gave her a solemn nod. That gravity soon disappeared when Danika handed the doll to her and Mira snatched it, hugging it fiercely.

The guests around them laughed and made aww noises. Danika then returned to where Saahad Bozidar stood for the final blessing. He placed his hand over her head and spoke a prayer in the old tongue, then with a smile, he motioned for her to turn and face the guests.

"Behold, people of Ishvala, the child who has grown in wisdom. Welcome her! _Ishvalah nadra ho'avaat!_ "

" _Ho'avaat!_ " came the resounding reply from a large portion of the gathering, Ishvalan and Amestrian alike. This was followed by resounding applause.

It had been years since any recollection of Kimblee had been stirred in Scar's mind. For some strange reason it did so at that moment. It wasn't accompanied by the usual feeling of loathing and rage, however slight. Perhaps he had finally grown out of it. Perhaps enough time had passed where he could honestly admit that he no longer felt threatened from beyond the grave. That had to be a good sign. To his surprise, what he felt was almost akin to pity. The child that the Crimson Alchemist had fathered had grown into a fine young woman and he was missing out on this moment. On second thought, it served him right.

* * *

"I'm still not quite sure what it is we're watching," Filetta remarked to Madame Christmas even as she applauded with everyone else. "Is this the warm-up act?"

"No, of course not," Chris replied. "This is a double feature. _Local Girl Makes Good_ followed by _Wedding of the Year_."

Filetta considered Danika intently between the heads in front of her. "She's really quite striking, isn't she, darling?"

"My thoughts exactly," her husband Ronald explained.

"How well do you know her, Madame?" Filetta asked.

Chris lifted a shoulder. "Fairly well. She's a charming girl. Smart. Nice manners."

"Can she sing?"

Chris' attention sharpened and she looked from one of them to the other. "Why?" she asked She drew in a quick breath. She didn't have her finger on the pulse of Amestrian show business for nothing. "Is this about Willie's project? The orphanage thing?"

"Yes, the orphanage thing. I think that's become the working title," Filetta said. "That girl that was cast as Marie quit to run away and get married."

"I see," Chris mused. "Well, duckie, I think it's an interesting idea, but you'll have to get past her father, and he's as tough a nut as you're ever likely to crack. But I'd love to see you try."

* * *

The gathering rustled with anticipation as the bridal couple was escorted to opposite sides of the altar. Olivier rested her hand on Stoyan's shoulder, and Shua stood on his other side. Since Stoyan was a war orphan, they had taken the place of his parents for this part of the ceremony. Across from them, Dejan and Naisha stood on either side of the young bride. Mika was dressed in an elaborately embroidered red dress that was layered over a creamy white chemise. A long headscarf, also embroidered, fell down her back. She tried to keep her eyes down as a demure bride ought to, or so Olivier was led to believe, but the girl couldn't help stealing glances at her husband to be.

Naisha smiled contentedly and Dejan, surprisingly enough, did so as well. Olivier had been worried about him, but he seemed calmer now than he had since she got here. Worrying about people did not come to her as second nature. She expected people to be good at what they did, so worry was never an issue. The soldiers who served under her command were the cream of the military, and if they weren't, they were gone. If they were killed in the line of duty, her consolation would be that they went down fighting and took some of the enemy down with them.

To be sure, Dejan was very good at what he did. He was a gifted musician and he was a kind, loving, and patient father. But he would make a terrible soldier. He was far too sentimental and conciliatory. If faced with a battle, he would try to get the opposing sides to shake hands and put their differences aside, maybe get them singing and dancing while he was at it.

A group of girls from Dejan's ensemble began to sing, the bridal party's cue to move forward. They escorted the young couple in a slow procession around the altar, Mika on one side and Stoyan on the other. They made three rotations before they came to a halt before _Saahad_ Bozidar. The parents and grandparents then stepped back from the young couple, who were now on their own.

Bozidar and Imir began chanting the prayers to begin the wedding ritual, and Olivier went to an at-ease stance. The Ishvalan ceremony was not a particularly long one. As Bozidar had said to her when she remarked on this, it was the marriage itself that took time and effort and commitment; the wedding was simply the blessing on this endeavor.

As the ceremony progressed, Olivier heard a sound that had her reeling back in time to her own wedding, which was in this very courtyard. Her father had broken into subdued tears as he led her around the altar. She turned to see Dejan press his hand to his mouth and squeeze his eyes shut. He hunched up his shoulders, let his head drop, and he began to weep.

Shua let out a sigh and wrapped an arm around his son, who leaned against him and sobbed as though his puppy had just died. Mika looked back over her shoulder, concerned, but Olivier just gave a reassuring shake of her head. This was the bride's day, not her father's, and if Dejan was overcome, well, that was just Dejan. Shua, more than anyone, had seen it coming. He patted Dejan's head as he pressed it against his collarbone, and he murmured words of comfort in Ishvalan. Actually, he was calling Dejan an idiot, but he meant it kindly.

* * *

The final blessing was spoken, and Mika and Stoyan were now husband and wife. Stoyan lifted Mika onto his shoulder-no mean feat; Mika was a tall girl-and they made their procession around the courtyard while the men sang. Dejan sang and clapped right along with them. Joy and bittersweet sorrow had had their battle and finally reconciled with each other. He only felt a little foolish.

Stoyan made as manly an effort as anyone had, and he set his new bride back on her feet. All the solemnity was done with, leaving them free to feast and celebrate. Dejan drew his sleeve across his eyes one last time, and he felt a firm hand on his shoulders.

"You all right?"

Dejan nodded. "Yeah, Dad. I'm fine." He grinned ruefully and nodded toward where they had stood by the altar. "Sorry about that."

Shua gave him a little shake, then wrapped his arm around him. "You always wore your heart on your sleeve, as the Amestrians say."

"You sure I didn't embarrass you in front of all your friends?"

Shua chuckled. "Well, I could think of worse things you could have done. No, you did all right." He tightened his hold in an affectionate hug. The he bent his head down and lowered his voice a little. "You know, son, I give you a hard time every now and then, but I don't ever want you to change. I haven't always been the best father to you, but you've always been the best son a man could ever have."

Dejan had to grin, partly to fight against the tears that were threatening to fill his eyes. He leaned a nudge against his father's side. "Ah, now, Dad, you're gonna get me bawling again."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody! I would like to make an announcement! I and another fanfic writer, Teej, have made an arrangement where I have given her permission to write a fic set in my FMA world. Teej has my full support and approval, and I think you're really going to enjoy this story. 
> 
> It will be posted as **"Sons of the Desert: Survivor"**
> 
> Stay tuned!

* * *

"So, what exactly am I eating? It's not chicken or beef. Definitely not lamb. What's left? Pork?"

"It's goat, Ronnie," Chris replied.

"Oh. Of course." Ronald considered the skewer of grilled meat on his plate a little uncertainly.

"It's delicious!" Filetta exclaimed, taking another skewer from the platter in front of them. "What I want to know is what this mystery vegetable is. I thought it might be green bell pepper, but it isn't."

"Hmm." Chris frowned at the concoction in one of the bowls on the table. Tomatoes, onions, and chunks of green things. "I give up. Doctor, what's your diagnosis?"

Dr. Marcoh, who sat across from them, chuckled. "It's cactus."

The others looked startled. "Really?" Filetta poked at it with her fork, a utensil not often used by Ishvalans; flatbread was the vehicle for most food. "Wouldn't that be painful?"

"The spines are removed along with the outer skin. It's the prickly pear cactus. The dish is called _nopaleh_."

Filetta took a healthy mouthful and nodded to indicate that it was rather good, and then her eyes widened. She swallowed quickly and grabbed for her wineglass.

Dr. Marcoh chuckled again. "It's a little spicy, isn't it? Some of those little green chunks are hot peppers"

Filetta swallowed and sucked air into her mouth. "Oh, my goodness, yes! But it's worth it! Whoever cooked this needs to open a restaurant in Central or somewhere. It would be a hit!"

Dr. Marcoh shrugged. "Very few Ishvalans want to leave here. They worked too hard to get back."

"We'll just have to come back," Ronald said.

"Oh, yes, I intend to." Filetta nudged Chris' elbow and lowered her voice. "Production isn't going to start for nearly a year on the orphanage thing. Among other things, Willie's looking for a director. But I do think Danika would be wonderful as Marie. She's so fresh and better yet, unknown. Ronnie's usually the one who steals the show, but I think he's got some serious competition there." She patted her husband's arm. "You don't mind, do you, darling? You are playing the villain, after all."

Ronald shook his head and flashed a smile. "The more fresh and tender the ingénues are, the more villainous I get to be."

Filetta gave him an affectionate look. "But you're really just an old teddy bear, darling!"

Chris smiled. Show business marriages tended to fall apart. Dueling egos tended to be very fragile. But these two simply melded together. She patted Filetta's hand. "Let me know when you want to approach Danika, or rather, her father. Actually," she added as a second thought, "Let me talk to him in due time. He's the 'over my dead body' type and must be handled delicately."

* * *

"How well do you think goat would sell at the shop?"

"Hmm…" Sig ruminated as he chewed on his mouthful. "It's a lot more popular out west."

"Cretan influence."

"You really have to know how to cook it."

Izumi nodded. "Low and slow is usually pretty safe."

"Depends on how old your goat is, too." Sig scowled. "Folks would take a nice piece of cabrito and boil the hell out of it."

"I wouldn't."

Sig's scowl turned into an affectionate beam, which was still a little intimidating. "That's because you're wonderful."

Izumi beamed back at him. "Oh, honey!"

Olivier had to smile. The Curtises never quite stopped acting like newlyweds. That wasn't something everyone could pass off without looking ridiculous. She had to admit to herself, though, that when she and Shua got together after a fairly long separation, she tended to feel rather bridal. Just a little secret she kept to herself.

She looked over to where Shua was moving among the tables and gabbing with his friends and acquaintances. He never could sit still. Right now he was sharing a joke with his friend Danny Marx, leader of the Polka Sharks. After a moment, Shua glanced back at her, as if he could feel her watching him. He flashed her a quick, warm grin, just enough to reconnect and give her that little thrill in the pit of her stomach. Up in Briggs the sensation would be an annoyance and a distraction. Here it didn't matter and she let herself savor it.

* * *

The first wave of feasting had subsided and people were sitting back to relax and socialize. Mitya had never been so well fed until he ended up under Andakar's roof, but the lavish spread laid out for this celebration was almost embarrassing. After only a week, he could already tell that he had gotten a little bigger. The new clothes that had arrived had appeared larger than his old clothes, but they fit him.

Mitya glanced over at Danika yet again. She didn't seem to be able to stop smiling, particularly when well-wishers would approach their table and address her as _Zhaarana_ Danika. At one point, a group of young people came to gather near Danika's seat. Mitya assumed they were her schoolmates. It seemed only natural that she would be popular. Mitya didn't envy that, but he found himself wishing he could at least be a part of that circle of friends. She seemed exotic and inaccessible with her richly decorated clothing and her hair braided with ribbons. But even if he were fluent in either Amestrian or Ishvalan, he would still be tongue-tied. The young people seemed to be anticipating something, and in a manner of minutes, on the other side of the cul-de-sac, a strange variety of instruments began to make noises. Mitya twisted in his chair to see Shua, his son Dejan, and a group of other Ishvalans, gathering together with their instruments.

With a sort of long-necked lute strapped around his neck, Dejan addressed the gathering, gesturing toward the newlywed couple. There was some brief applause, which was repeated as he held out his hand toward Danika as well. Then, as the other musicians gathered around him, he spread out his arms and beckoned toward the large open area between the tables. Several people rose from their seats and began to form long lines, holding hands. They were mostly the Ishvalans, but there were a number of Amestrians joining in as well.

Two of the young men next to Danika immediately held their hands out to her and she giggled. With a quick glance at her father, who gave her an indulgent nod, she took the hands of the young men and let them lead her away. They joined one of the lines just as the musicians began to play. Mitya kept his eyes on Danika, now entirely envious. The lines curved around each other, sometimes tightening toward the center, sometimes curling away in the opposite direction. There was a lot of whooping and whistling, and those who weren't dancing clapped along. Mitya tried to follow the steps, which the dancers made to look easy but struck him as complicated.

This went on for a good twenty minutes. The musicians changed tunes a few times, and the dancers changed their steps accordingly. Some of the dancer dropped out and other joined in. The two boys on either side of Danika gave up their spots to another pair of boys. Andakar and Rada even got up to dance. Rada beckoned toward Mitya to come along, but he shook his head. If he'd had some practice beforehand, he might have ventured it, but he particularly didn't want to look foolish in front of Danika and her friends.

Finally, the music came to a halt and the dancers stilled their steps, applauding the musicians. Shua stepped out to the center of the open area as it cleared and waved his arm. A small group of Amestrians, carrying more familiar instruments—an accordion, a bass, and a guitar—came forward. A couple of them even set up a small drum set. The accordion player joked with Shua, gesturing toward him as if to convince him to do something. With a bow of his head, Shua agreed, and the musicians began playing. Being Amestrians, Mitya expected whatever it was to sound Amestrian, but after a bit of introduction, Shua began to sing a rousing song in Ishvalan. When he was done, there was a lot of cheering, and Shua gave a little bow, trying to look modest but not making much of an effort.

Danika made her way back to the table just as the Amestrian musicians prepared to play again. The accordionist made a brief announcement, and Mitya could pick out a few of the words he used, but one in particular made him sit up. He distinctly heard the man say polka. Even as his did so, a number of people got up from their seats, mostly Amestrians this time, and formed into couples rather than lines.

In school, Mitya and his classmates had been taught a few basic dances as part of their cultural education. The polka was easy enough and he had gotten proficient enough at it to be chosen to perform as part of a school exhibition. This was before his parents died and he still had the heart for such things. He found the heart for it again at that very moment. But now that it came to it, did he have the courage?

Before the musicians began, Shua joined them again, this time carrying an instrument Mitya was startled to recognize as a domra. He wasn't sure how a Drachman instrument had made its way into Amestris. Maybe General Armstrong had somehow gotten hold of one and given it to Shua. Mitya was briefly distracted, but then he caught Colonel Miles crossing the dancing area and heading toward their table, or more specifically, toward Danika.

Mitya took a deep breath and rose from his seat just as Miles approached with his hand extended toward Danika, and Mitya stepped just a little in front of him, cutting him off. The colonel was surprised enough to come to a halt, but Mitya's attention was now riveted on Danika. His heart pounded in his chest, so much so that he feared the girl might hear it, but he made a little bow. He straightened and fixed his eyes on Danika's.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance?" He knew she couldn't understand him, but his limited knowledge of Amestrian was simply not appropriate for such a moment. If he was going to ask her to dance, he'd do it right and hope that she would guess at his intention.

Danika gave him a slightly surprised look, and he thought that she had more or less figured out what he was trying to say, but she glanced up at Colonel Miles as though for confirmation. After a wry glance and a half grin at Mitya, the colonel translated. Danika turned back to Mitya and gave him a brilliant smile, which transcended all language. He held his hand out to her and she took it, and the two of them headed out to join the other couples.

For a moment, Mitya's sudden burst of daring nearly deserted him, and he was afraid that Danika might feel his hand shake as he placed it carefully on her waist. With a little giggle, she put her hand on his shoulder, and he was almost petrified with a mixture of delight and terror. Everything else around him seemed to fade except for the brilliant blue of Danika's eyes. But with a few introductory chords from the accordion, the spell was broken and the musicians launched into a lively polka. For one terrifying second, Mitya realized that he didn't even know if Danika knew this dance, but she fell right into step with him.

He had never in his life experienced anything that could even remotely be categorized as perfect, not really having anything else to go by, but this particular moment in time was about as perfect as it could possibly be. It was so effortless. He moved with a confidence and a mastery that he never knew he possessed. He even threw in a few variations that he'd seen the older students practice. Dropping his hand from Danika's waist, he raised her hand and twirled her around a few times. He tightened his steps so that they spun briefly in a tighter circle. None of it caught Danika off guard and she followed right along with him. From somewhere around them he could hear a pattering of applause, and the two of them laughed breathlessly.

Far too soon, the music came to an end. Other couples had been dancing as well, but Mitya and Danika were the ones who were applauded, even by the musicians. Danika covered her mouth with her hands and giggled with delight. Mitya could feel that his face was flushed, but it was from exertion rather than embarrassment. For the first time since he could even remember, Mitya didn't mind being the center of attention.

* * *

Scar watched them, suddenly struck by a deep sadness. It had nothing to do with his little girl growing up. Of course she would grow up. Of course boys would be attracted to her like bees to a flower. Even this boy. He had been only briefly startled by Mitya's boldness. If anyone could draw that boy out of his shyness, it would be Danika, and it would be the most natural thing in the world.

"She is fifteen now, you know."

Miles seemed to have misread his expression. Scar spared his friend a brief glance, then turned his gaze back to the young couple skipping together among the other dancing couples. "I know."

Miles chuckled and sat down in the chair that Rada had vacated. Scar could see her sitting by Sophia Armstrong. She was watching her daughter as well, probably with the same thoughts going through her head. Miles nodded to the music as he watched the dancers. "You have to admit, they're cute together."

"I'm not saying they aren't."

Miles turned to look at him, hearing the bleakness in his voice. "You're the one who wanted to take him under your roof."

"You didn't stop me."

"You should have known." Miles sighed. "When are you going to realize that the world is just too damn big even for your shoulders, hm?"

Scar couldn't help shrugging, as if feeling the weight. Sooner or later, that boy would be taken away to be fodder for someone else's crusade. Danika's heart would be broken, and not just from the sheer injustice of it all. It would be a cruel entrance into adulthood for both of them.

Let them dance. This was Danika's day and this was her privilege. For now, they could laugh and be happy in each other's company, and their joy would be a brave light that kept the darkness of the world at bay.


	22. Chapter 22

Scar moved through the gathered guests as they milled about between eating and dancing. He nodded an occasional greeting, as a good host ought to, but distractedly. He had just managed to extricate himself from a debate with Edward which should have come as a relief, but he still felt vaguely perturbed. Now that he thought about it, he'd been feeling that for a while, even before his conversation with Edward. Just a niggling irritation that he couldn't really place. He set it aside, attributing it to having so many people invade his street who had been here long enough and why didn't they go home.

"Mister Andakar!"

Scar shook himself out of his brooding and looked up to see Mei waving at him from where she stood beside Alphonse. The younger Elric was holding his baby daughter so she faced forward, and she was observing the world with interest.

Scar smiled and held out his arms. Since Alphonse and Mei were staying with Miles, he hadn't had much of a chance to see Jia-Li. Alphonse handed her over and Scar held her up so she could gaze out over his shoulder. She seemed to be perfectly content with this vantage point.

"She's inquisitive," Scar observed.

"It's a family trait," Mei replied with a smile.

Scar nodded. "I've noticed," he said with a slight edge in his voice.

Alphonse chuckled. "I saw you over there getting your ear bent by my brother."

Scar let out a huff of exasperation. "He was trying to tell me that I had a moral imperative to use my alchemy for the good of mankind because the state doesn't have me by the short hairs and I have a freaking conscience."

Both Alphonse and Mei stared at him.

"His words," Scar added. "Not mine."

Alphonse gave a quirk of a grin. "That actually sounds like quite a compliment, coming from Brother."

"That's as may be. I told him that a moral imperative presupposes that the means by with an end is achieved are intrinsically good, which alchemy is not. Then he waved his hands around, sloshing half a bottle of beer on the ground, claiming vehemently that I knew what he meant."

"Did you?"

Scar lifted his shoulders. "Yes, I suppose I did, but I'm not going to discuss moral philosophy with a drunken person."

Alphonse had to laugh, but his smile turned a little sad. "I don't think he was this passionate about alchemy even before he lost his."

"Obsessed is more like it."

"I guess you could say that," Alphonse admitted. "You read his book, didn't you?"

Scar gave a little tilt of his head. "Most of it. He said he's starting another one."

"That's right. Even after he finished the last one, he learned about things he'd missed the first time. One thing leads him to another, and he can't resist following the trail." Alphonse looked at Scar earnestly. "He doesn't do it for fame or glory," he insisted. "He collects so much knowledge and information that he just can't keep it all in his head. So he writes it down. And then he goes looking for more. I guess…" Alphonse shrugged. "I guess it's like a drug to him. But he's been curious about your alchemy for some time. To be honest," he added, "So have I."

Scar gave a quiet sigh. "Have you?"

"You must admit, Mister Andakar," Mei put in. "You are unique. After Alphonse understood the concept of alkahestry, he was able to switch back and forth between it and his own alchemy. From what I remember of your brother's notes, your ability, I think, is a true hybrid."

Alphonse nodded quickly. "That's right! Can you imagine?" he said, his eyes growing bright. "Being able to channel tectonic energy and the Dragon's Pulse at the same time? That's an extraordinary amount of power! I can't think of anyone else…except my dad…who could do that!"

Scar had never considered that. As he looked at the young couple's eager faces with some dismay, he wished they hadn't told him that. He had never had any desire to delve that deeply into his abilities. No wonder Edward's curiosity was so sharp.

"I will not be the subject of one of your brother's books."

Alphonse looked a little disappointed, but he nodded. "I understand, I guess. But—"

"Papa! Hey, Papa! K'shushi's still acting funny! Could you come and see what's bothering him?"

The three adults looked down at Mattas, who was tugging on his father's sleeve with a worried look. Scar was grateful for the distraction. But he shook his head.

"I told you before, _lahaat_. K'shushi's excited because of all the people that are here. It's just the noise and the strange smells."

Mattas gave a little grimace of doubt. "I dunno, Papa. This is a little different, I think. Couldn't you come and do the thing?"

Scar knew he meant using his alchemy, something he particularly didn't want to talk about now. Besides, it wouldn't really tell him anything that K'shushi's body language didn't convey quite clearly.

"I don't need to touch him to find out that he just wants to come out here and run around like a wild thing."

"I'd hold onto his leash really tight!"

"No, Mattas. He'll be all right. He's not suffering."

Alphonse smiled down at the boy. "Dogs are really social animals," he said. "It's totally natural for them to want to get in on the party."

Scar dropped his hand onto Mattas' head. "He can't come out here. It would be a disaster. If you want to go inside and keep him company, you may."

Mattas took on a grave look and he nodded. "Okay."

Scar watched his son trot through the gathering toward their house. "I didn't expect him to agree to that."

"A boy and his dog," Alphonse remarked with a smile.

"But it's strange," Mei mused. "I've been feeling a little odd myself."

Alphonse looked at her in concern. "Really?"

Mei nodded. "It started a while ago. Maybe an hour. I started feeling sort of anxious and restless. But it's fleeting." She looked up at her husband and smiled, but somehow her smiled didn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't worry. Otherwise I feel fine."

Scar studied his young friend. It was an odd coincidence, to be sure. Then he shrugged it off. There were just too many people here. More specifically, too many Amestrians. "Well, once all this is over, we'll all feel better, K'shushi included."

* * *

Boudicca had some time ago resigned herself to the fact that this had been a monumental mistake. She had ventured onto foreign soil in more ways than one. She had no influence here, and even Phillip's obligations of hospitality faltered under his desire to have a good time with his particular set of friends who were, most decidedly, not hers. She felt like she'd walked into a trap. A temporary one, to be sure, but one whose indignities she had no choice but to suffer through before she could leave at the first possible opportunity.

She could have gotten up and moved through the crowd and actually socialize, but she wasn't used to having to do that. When she held a social event at her home, she was the one who held court and the guests came to her to pay their respects. Besides, other than her brother's family, she didn't know anyone. There was, of course, her former sister-in-law, Filetta, but she refused to acknowledge her presence. This was a particularly irksome dilemma, because it would have been something of a triumph to be introduced to that actor, Ronald Grainger. She could not have one without the other, and she had already suffered enough humiliations, the chiefest of which was being saddled with this repulsive Ishvalan crone and her incessant knitting.

The woman was so incredibly old it was a wonder that she didn't crumble in on herself. She sat at the same table with Phillip's family, along with that Ishvalan officer and his Ishvalan wife. The old woman ate like an old woman, her food travelling precariously to her wrinkled mouth and her wrinkled jaw moved with an agonizing slowness. _And she ate with her hands!_ She realized with horror that nearly everyone at the table did the same. They used bits of bread to scoop up the food on their plates. She couldn't believe that Phillip and especially Sophia, who really had come from a very well-placed and gracious family, even by Boudicca's standards, _ate with their hands_. Boudicca herself ate little. There were a few plates of food that looked recognizable, but for the most part, it was all alien and highly suspect.

But then everyone scampered off to their own devices. Phillip and Sophia danced about with as much energy and abandon as their children. The music was loud and raucous and exotic, a term Boudicca did not use as any sort of compliment. They left her alone with the old woman (Boudicca had instantly forgotten her name). Sometimes people would approach their table, but it was to greet the old woman, not her. Mostly they were Ishvalans and they spoke in their own utterly incomprehensible language, which jarred on her ear.

The old woman seemed perfectly content to sit and watch everyone, her knitting sometimes lying still in her lap.

"That fellow over there," she said, pointing to a mixed couple. The man was Ishvalan and the woman was Amestrian who had ridiculous strands of pink hair. "That's the chieftain of Kanda. To be sure, he is of a noble house, and if he gives himself airs, I suppose he's entitled to them. But he was once a notorious swaggerer. He still is, a bit, but that wife of his keeps him proper, which is a wonder, considering she's Amestrian. She's a good woman, though. Well-spoken and courteous."

Boudicca had absolutely no interest, and she bristled at the term _considering she's Amestrian_ , as though allowances had to be made. Coming from an Ishvalan, of all people!

The old woman nodded in another direction. "There's the young bridegroom," she said. She didn't seem to care whether Boudicca was even listening. "He comes from a decent family. It's hard to say if he's married beneath himself. His bride's family are _vatrishi_ , after all. But they've come up in the world." She lifted her shoulders underneath her knitted shawl (which was actually rather fine, Boudicca was forced to admit). "You can plant peacock feathers onto a crow's backside, but then what? The crow thinks he looks very fine, to be sure." She concluded with a lift of an eyebrow and a knowing look and left her remark at that.

Somewhat to her surprise, Boudicca knew what she meant. She had known a number of types who had started with low origins and adventured their way up the social ladder. Phillip's newest son-in-law, for example, Captain Brodsky-Fitzwhatever. Both his sons-in-law had infiltrated the ranks of the Armstrong family from low origins, as a matter of fact. Boudicca sighed and wished she had stayed home.

"You should take some tea," the old woman advised. She waved at a small Ishvalan child that had scampered close by and said something to it. The child nodded and scurried away. Soon, an Ishvalan woman—the wife of that officer—approached with a dark red ceramic pot and a couple of matching cups (matching cups—who would have thought?). She set the cups on the table and poured tea into them.

"Do you take anything in your tea, _Zharaana_?" she asked Boudicca.

Tea would actually be most welcome. "No, thank you." Boudicca took the cup rather gingerly—it had no handle.

The woman handed the other cup to the old woman. "There you go, Auntie Zulee."

"Thank you, _laleh_."

Boudicca sipped tentatively at her tea and found it surprisingly good, the same flowery kind that Sophia served at her home. It had come straight from Xing. She nearly spilled some of it on her lap when she was startled by the abrupt approach of a young Xingese man, coincidentally enough.

"Hello, Auntie Zulee!" the young man exclaimed brightly. He kissed the old woman soundly on both cheeks and she flapped her hand at him. "You remind me so much of my grandmother, it's uncanny!"

The old woman chuckled. "You said the last time you were here."

"Well, it's true! I gave her her own little palace to live in and she still smacks my knuckles with her fan!"

"That's because you're a shameless rascal!" the old woman told him with an indulgent smile.

The young man gave a laugh. "I am, aren't I?" He turned to Boudicca. "You're Phillip's sister, aren't you? Someone told me that. I forget who."

"I…yes, I am," Boudicca admitted, not sure whether she should have.

"Nice to meet you!" The young man thrust his hand out at her, which she considered before taking cautiously. He nearly shook her arm out of its socket. "The name's Ling Yao!" He promptly turned his attention back to the old woman. "So, now lovely Danika is of marriageable age, isn't she?"

"Hm! When I was a girl, that was so," the old woman replied. She gave the man a shrewdly narrow look. "The _khorovar_ is unlikely to agree to such a match whatever his daughter's age, which you should well know."

The young man let out a melodramatic sigh. "You can't blame a fellow for being persistent."

"I can see why your grandmother raps your knuckles," the old woman observed dryly.

The young man gave another unrepentant chuckle. "Oh, that's no surprise to anyone!"

" _Eh-h!_ You're cheeky as sin!" the old woman exclaimed. Boudicca was inclined to agree with her. "You're nearly as bad as that _vatrish_ Shua!"

The young man's mouth dropped open with indignation. "Oh, I'm much worse than him!" he retorted with a wicked grin. "That's how I got to be emperor of Xing!"

Boudicca stiffened in her chair. The young man scampered off and she followed his progress. He approached that Ishvalan girl, the one with the dark hair, and extended his hand to her. A large Ishvalan man with a scar on his face frowned a little as the girl giggled and took the young man's hand. The band started playing again and the young man led the girl to join the other dancing couples.

"Is that…is that really the emperor of Xing?" Boudicca said in a whisper.

"Yes, yes," the old woman replied, almost wearily. "Emperor he may be, but I'm certain he's a trial to his elders. His grandmother has his measure, I'm sure." She picked up her knitting again. "Men have their place, being strong of arm, but they're not always the wisest creatures Ishvala created." She nodded in the direction of the dark-haired girl as she skipped along in the emperor's arms. "We welcome our maidens into adulthood much sooner than the boys, who must master a craft before they're of any use. And while the young men are butting heads with each other and preening and strutting to impress the girls, it's _mother-wit_ that holds Ishval together." She nodded sagely. "We women of a certain age have the measure of the world, and the world would be lost without us."

Boudicca could think of nothing she could find wrong with that statement. Also, she had met the emperor of Xing. Perhaps this trip wasn't such a waste after all.

* * *

"Hand."

"Hand."

The two sat facing each other by their table. The rest of the family were out in the crowd somewhere, socializing or, in the case of her siblings, just running around with their friends.

"Ha-a-and." Danika drew the vowel sound out so Mitya could hear the difference. She felt it was important that he got the accent down just right, not just the words themselves.

Mitya laughed a little. "Ha-a-and!" he repeated, a little teasingly.

"Very good!" the girl pronounced.

"Very good!" Mitya repeated, just for practice.

Danika could have corrected him, but she thought it was so cute the way he rolled his r's. Casting about for more vocabulary, she touched her finger to the tip of her nose. "Nose."

Mitya smiled. "Nose." He gave the "s" a more sibilant sound.

"Noz-z-z." Danika said again.

"Noz-z-z-z!"

The two of them giggled.

"How's our young fellow doing?"

They looked up to see Shua approach. Mitya must have been able to figure out what he'd said and answered for himself. "I am well," he replied.

Shua's brows went up a little. "I'll say. You're a pretty quick study!"

"He is, _djaari_!" Danika agreed. "He's really very smart!"

"I've no doubt." Shua bent down and kissed Danika on both cheeks. " _Ishvala nadrin ho'avaat_ , sweetheart! Sorry I haven't had the chance to congratulate you until now."

Danika beamed up at him affectionately. "That's okay, _djaari_. I know you've been busy. _Ho'avaat_!"

"I remember when I first clapped eyes on you. You were just a little bit of a thing!" Shua let out a deep sigh. "Ishvala, but you kids are all growing up so fast it makes my head spin! I'll be a great-grandfather before I know it." He dropped his hand onto Mitya's shoulder. The boy had been listening to them quietly but intently. "And this lad here! He looks twice himself since I first saw him. I knew coming to Ishval would do him good." He caught Mitya's eye. "What do you say, _lahaat_? You like it here?"

Mitya smiled and nodded. "I like it here."

Shua laughed and clapped his shoulder a couple of times. "There, now! I told you so!" He turned back to Danika. "You two ought to get back out there and dance." He gave her a ghost of a wink. "Show everyone else how it's done!"

Danika gave him a pert look. "You have to play us some music, then!"

"Fair enough, _laleh_! Just give me a minute to get the musicians together. They've all wandered off and they might be a little tipsy by now. But that's when they play the best."

Shua sauntered off and proceeded to gather some of his musician friends together. Danika turned back to Mitya and smiled.

"Do you want to dance again?" she asked, speaking a little slowly. She knew that he could probably pick out most words by now, enough to get the gist of a sentence.

Mitya smiled and nodded, confirming her thought. " _Davayte tantsevat_!" he replied, paying her the compliment of assuming she could understand what he said. His smile broadened a little and he held his hand out to her, a gesture that transcended language.

* * *

"This thing is losing its fizz."

Shua glanced at his friend, Danny Marx, leader of the Polka Sharks. They had just finished a set of dance tunes and were taking a breather. Danny had just taken a drink from a bottle of beer, and Shua jerked his chin toward it.

"Get a fresh one, then. The cap must've had a leak."

Danny frowned at him for a moment. "Huh? Oh!" he chuckled, holding up the bottle. "No, the beer is fine. I mean this party's losing its fizz and the sun's still in the sky."

Shua looked around, considering his friend's remark. "I dunno, lahaat. If the sun's still in the sky, it may be too early to start dancing on tables. This isn't Federico's." One of their favorite Central City watering holes was famous for late-night shenanigans of that sort. He grinned suddenly. "But we can't wait forever, now, can we?"

Danny chuckled in anticipation, his fingers dancing across the keyboard of his squeezebox to play a quick scale. "Call the tune and lead the way, son."

"Hold on. We have to set the stage first." Shua glanced around, then raised his chin. "Hai, Stanno!"

The chieftain of Kanda turned around to locate where his name had been called from. "What?"

Shua waved him closer. Stanno gave a little roll of his eyes. "What?" he repeated, refusing to budge.

"Tch! _Yaakhtai_!" Shua muttered. He crossed over to where Stanno stood, motioning to Danny to follow him. "I had a bet with my friend Danny here," he began.

"Well, I hope you lost it."

Shua grinned and wagged a finger. "No, _lahaat_ , we haven't started yet." He looked around at the arrangement of tables and chairs. "Where's the kitchen table you built for Dejan? We moved it out here."

Stanno gave him a puzzled look and shrugged. "How would I know?" He glanced around. "I've made a lot of tables."

"I've no doubt. The one you made for Dejan is a beast."

"They're well made, to be sure." Stanno's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"They could probably take the weight of a few men, couldn't they?"

Stanno's expression hardened with suspicion. "What sort of idiocy are you trying to come up with now?"

Shua continued blithely. "I bet my friend here that a bunch of us could dance on one of your fine tables and it wouldn't collapse."

Stanno considered Shua as though satisfied that he had lost his mind. He laughed and shook his head. Gesturing with both his arms wide, he said, "Go ahead. Once I sell a table, it's not mine anymore. Dance on it all you like."

"Ah!" Shua held up a finger. "But will it hold up? Danny here is willing to bet that it won't!"

"I've seen my share of collapsed tables," Danny added.

Stanno glanced at the band leader. "Really? Well, I've always had my doubts about Amestrian craftsmanship so I'm not surprised."

"So, you're pretty confident that your stuff'll hold up?" Danny challenged. "'Cause I'm not."

Stanno looked from him to Shua and back, certain that he was being made the butt of something but smarting from having his pride goaded. "All right," he said finally. He glanced around again, then moved along a line of tables. He lifted tablecloths (an Amestrian convention that Sophia Armstrong had insisted on), inspecting finishes and bending down to check the joints. "How much is the bet?"

"Five thousand," Shua answered. Danny gave a little cough but otherwise kept quiet.

Stanno eyed them a little suspiciously but continued his inspection. He stopped at one of the tables and rapped his knuckles on it. The occupants of that table watched him, perplexed.

"This one's mine," Stanno declared.

Shua clapped his hands together. "Right!" He scanned the crowd and put his fingers in his mouth to let out a shrill whistle. "Dejan!" he called out. "Stoyan! Come over here!"

Dejan and his new son-in-law came to join them. "What's up, Dad? Are we playing again?"

"No, _lahaat_. We're dancing," Shua informed him. "Help me get the stuff off this table." He grinned at the people sitting there. "Sorry, folks," he said. "You might want to move just for a bit."

The table's occupants, sensing that it was probably a very good idea to get out of the way, got up from their seats, taking their valuables with them.

Shua yanked off the tablecloth and tossed it aside. He looked around. "Let's see…how can we make this more interesting…" He waved his hand. "Saahad! Come on over here and lend us a hand!"

Imir came up to them, followed by Andakar, who was looking a little suspicious. "What can I do for you?" Imir asked. He spread his hands. "We've had our wedding and our birthday blessing. What's left?"

"They want to dance on one of my tables," Stanno explained in a dry tone.

"Ah!" Imir gave a nod. "It's a funeral, then?"

"Very funny," Shua said. "No, I just wanted to see if you cared to help us test Stanno's handiwork. There's money riding on the outcome."

"Oh, I see!" Imir rubbed his short beard as he considered the idea.

Andakar gave the priest a despairing look. "You can't be serious."

Imir shrugged. "Why not?" He held up a finger. "But whoever wins the bet has to split it with the Kanda school."

Shua stepped up onto a chair and then to the table. "Fair enough." He waved his hands upwards. "Come on, lahaatii! Pick up your feet!"

Dejan climbed up onto the table then turned to hold out a hand to Stoyan. "What are we dancing?"

"Oh, I dunno. How about _Halik Shifei_?" Shua looked down at Stanno as he began to climb onto the table. "You know that one?"

"My rickshaw pullers favor that one. I know it well enough."

"I sure don't know it," Danny said. "What's that called in Amestrian?"

"Silver Feather."

Danny frowned a little. "Uh…hum a few bars."

Damyan joined the group, the chanter from his bagpipe in his hand. He played a few measures of the tune and Danny soon fell in with him on his accordion. The bandleader nodded in recognition. "Oh, that one!" He smirked up at Shua. "You told me that was called Bucket of Beans."

Stanno gave Shua a disgusted look. "Bucket of Beans?"

Even Dejan was singularly unimpressed. "Seriously, Dad?"

Shua shrugged it off. "I'd had a few." He reached his hand down to Imir. "How about you, _Saahad_? Can you keep up?"

Imir flexed his knees then jumped up onto the table. "I'm a warrior-priest of Ishvala. I can do this all day."

Scar was more concerned about the dancers falling off and breaking their necks than the possibility of the table collapsing. Imir, at least, would know how to land without hurting himself, although Scar was still a little surprised that the younger priest was even up there.

The men arranged themselves in a line, and with a clap of Shua's hands and a shout, they grasped each other's hands in a basket hold and bent a little at the knee in preparation. Danny and Damyan started playing. The tune started at a moderately slow pace, and the men began their steps. They had to adjust a little, keeping their movement compact so as not to fall off the table. Scar almost wished he'd made a side bet that they would end up doing just that.

The dance involved a fair amount of stomping and even a couple of jumps, which made the table shake, but it held. As Scar watched, he found himself feeling uncomfortably irritated and at first he assumed it was because of all the bodies crowding around him. Most of the guests had gathered around to watch, and many of them clapped or whistled or called out encouragement. But then he realized that this was simply the same feeling of unease that he'd already had.

On closer reflection, there really wasn't anything he could blame it on. Not the company nor the stresses of the day. Not only that that, but it almost felt as though the sensation was coming from without and was working its way inside him. And it began to grow more insistent, little by little, until it became a discomfort.

Then it grew sharp and it made him catch his breath. He glanced around at all the other faces, sure that everyone else must surely be feeling the same thing. But they all seemed totally oblivious. Until his eyes fell on Emperor Ling at one edge of the crowd. He had his eyes on the dancers up on the table, but he had a vague scowl on his face and he had a firm hand on his boys' shoulders, holding them close.

Scar quickly scanned elsewhere until the fell on Mei. At the same time she met his gaze directly, her eyes growing wide with sudden alarm. Then she looked down quickly to stare at the ground.

He felt the flagstones lift under his feet. It wasn't so much a jolt, but it was a very definitely rolling, as though standing on a raft floating on water.

The table tilted. Imir slipped off first but landed cleanly on his feet, able to catch Stanno after he teetered on the edge of the table and fell. By then the table had tilted the other way and Shua, Dejan, and Stoyan regained their balance. Danny and Damyan stopped playing and stared at each other. The silence left by the absence of music was quickly filled with alarmed murmuring then shouts and even a few frightened screams.

Then, even as the realization struck everyone, the tremor ceased, but the voices, fearful and wondering and verging on hysteria, rose like a muted roar. From his vantage point on top of the table, Shua surveyed the crowd, then met Scar's gaze. With a nod of his head, he motioned for Scar to join him. Scar quickly mounted the table as Shua put his fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. The crowd, already tensed, flinched like a single body, but then they quieted and turned their attention to the khorovar as he lifted his hands.

"No one panic!" he called out. That was easy enough to say, trying to calm people while his own heart was pounding. "It was only a small tremor and it's over! Is anyone hurt?"

Heads turned to await replies from other parts of the crowd. When none came, Scar gave a satisfied nod. "That's good."

He could see that Miles was already moving through the crowd, as were his new adjutant, Captain Brodnax-Fitzgeoffrey and Sergeant Benjamin, assessing any damage there might be. Though still a little subdued, the crowd had relaxed and many had started cleaning up anything that had fallen off the tables or comforting other guests who were still a bit shaken.

From his vantage point Scar quickly scanned the crowd for his family. One by one he located them. There was Rada, holding Timothy in her arms. The little boy looked entirely unfazed. Rada was bending down a little, talking to someone. Scar could just see the top of his daughter Winry's head. There were Danika and Mitya, the boy slightly paler than usual but keeping protectively close to the girl. He couldn't see Mattas anywhere. After one brief moment of anxiety he recalled that the boy had gone into the house to comfort K'shushi, who had sensed this coming before anyone else. He owed both his son and his dog an apology.

At his left side, he heard a chuckle. It took more than an earthquake to stir Shua's equanimity. The _vatrish_ gave the table top a couple of taps with his heel. "Not bad. If that had been a real bet, I would have won it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](http://sons-of-the-desert-fma.tumblr.com/post/85920906660/from-335-to-534-the-men-arranged-themselves) is an example of the sort of dance the boys would be doing on the table.


	23. Chapter 23

Scar was not one of those who retreated into a bottle in a stressful situation. But most of the guests had left, none of them injured and only a few still a little shaken. The sun was setting, leaving a pleasant coolness. The hum of voices were now only extended family and close friends. So he allowed himself the luxury of a glass of wine, courtesy of the Armstrong family and poured by the Armstrongs' butler, Jeffers.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. Governor?" the man asked.

Scar shook his head. "No, thank you. And thank you for all the help you and your people gave today."

Jeffers gave a slight bow from his waist. "My pleasure, sir."

Scar was inclined to take him at his word. He not comfortable with the idea of servants, even though his own parents had employed housemaids. But he knew that the staunch loyalty of the Armstrong staff had little to do with their handsome salaries.

Jeffers went off to supervise the cleaning up process and Scar sat back to take a swallow of his wine. He was no expert, but this was clearly a superior vintage. The Armstrongs would not settle for less. It was probably Aerugan, which Shua had once informed him was the best there was, and he knew alcohol. He went on to say that Amestris had it all over the Aerugans when it came to beer. Aerugans brewed beer, too, which was fine, Shua said, if you liked cat piss.

Scar gazed around the cul-de-sac. The smaller children were chasing each other around the fountain, joined by K'shushi, who was actually behaving himself, more or less. Scar felt a little guilty about exiling the poor creature, who must have been in a terrible state of anxiety. He himself did not want to dwell on his own strange sensations, which had disappeared the moment the tremor ceased.

At one of the other tables, the Elric couples were deep in conversation. Or at least three of them were. Judging by the look of boredom that Winry was trying to hide, they were probably discussing alchemy. Scar caught her eye and beckoned her over. She gave a little smirk and leaned closer to Edward to speak a few words to him. Edward looked across the cul-de-sac to spare Scar a sour glance, then he nodded distractedly and went back to arguing some point with Alphonse.

Winry walked over to the table Scar was at and pulled out a chair. "I love my husband and my family to pieces, but their interests aren't always mine." She sat down and studied his face for a moment, her forearms on the table. "Are you okay? It was a big day, after all, and then the earth wobbled. I was a little disturbed, but I get to go home to where we don't have earthquakes. You have to live here."

Scar gave a small dismissive wave of his hand. "We've had earthquakes before. Apart from the great one, they haven't done any lasting damage. But," he added, "this was the first one since we came back to Ishval."

Winry leaned a little closer. "And the first one you could sense coming."

Scar regarded her with a slight frown. "I didn't tell anyone that."

"No, but Mei said she saw it in your face. She could sense it, too."

"So did my dog, apparently," Scar added.

Winry looked over her shoulder at where K'shushi was gamboling with the children, entirely in his element. "Yeah, Mei said that animals sometimes sense earthquakes coming. They get them in Xing every now and then." She nodded back toward where her husband and her in-laws sat. "They're having a sort of east-versus-west debate, tectonic energy or the Dragon's Pulse. Like it matters." She turned back around. "Ed wanted to pick your brains about it, but I told him to leave you alone."

"I appreciate that."

Winry rested her chin on her hand. "Does it make you feel creepy?"

"Having Edward pester me? Yes."

Winry reached across the table and slapped his arm. "That is not what I meant!"

Scar smiled a little. "Are you picking my brains now?"

"No. Well, not like Ed would. But I have to wonder what it would be like to be able to sense something terrible coming and not being able to do anything about it."

"I can't see into the future."

"No, I know that. But would you want to?"

It was an interesting question, but Scar shook his head. "No, I don't think I would, certainly not if I was powerless to do anything."

"Yeah, me neither." Winry tilted her head a little in thought. "Some people have a pretty good sense of knowing how a situation might turn out before it happens. As in 'this won't end well.'"

Scar nodded. "That comes with experience and the gaining of wisdom."

Winry gave a little laugh. "Or just being a pessimist. There's this old guy who lives up the road from us. He's always predicting doom." She shook a raised finger and mimicked a scratchy old man voice. "Just you wait, young'un! There'll be hell to pay, sure as pigs is pigs!"

Scar smiled at her performance. "There's a certain wisdom in that," he remarked. "Those who expect the worst are never disappointed."

"Is that an old Ishvalan saying?"

"No. I'm quoting Brigadier General Mustang." Scar picked up his wineglass. "Forgive me. I'd offer you some wine, but not in your present state."

Winry pressed a hand to her belly. "No, that's okay. I'm fine."

"You're due in the summer?" Scar asked, grateful to change the subject.

Winry nodded and sighed a little. "Right when it's hottest." She broke into a smile. "Pretty soon you'll be seeing me sitting on the porch with my feet in a bucket of ice water." Her smile turned into a grimace. "When I have the time to sit down."

"Surely Edward helps you."

Winry regarded him with a mock suspicious look. "Is that sarcasm I hear in your voice?"

Scar refused to look guilty. "Probably."

"When he's home he's a big help," Winry said pointedly. Whether the point was Edward being a big help or the frequency of him being home was unclear. Scar didn't press for details. Winry gave a little shrug. "When he's not scribbling notes or pounding away at his typewriter, that is." She gave a little nod and concluded in a firm tone, "I manage."

Considering how devoted Edward had always claimed to be to his childhood friend, Scar was just a little unimpressed with how he was following through. But that same childhood friend's devotion was just as strong. "You know that you can come to me for help at any time."

Winry smiled at him. "I know. And don't think I won't take you up on it just to be polite."

"I would expect nothing less." Scar glanced over the rim of his wineglass and noted the approach of Olivier Armstrong. It was perhaps a little unfair, but his mood soured just a little. She might only be coming to congratulate him on Danika's behalf, but he doubted it.

"Hello, General!" Winry greeted her genially.

Hello, Mrs. Elric," Olivier replied with an actual sincere smile. "How are you doing? I haven't really had a chance to talk to you today."

"I'm fine and for pete's sake, just call me Winry!"

"I'll try to remember that. How's business? My automail tech still talks about you, you know. I don't think he's ever going to get over his crush."

Winry sat back in her chair with a little laugh. "Business is good, but I get a little behind these days. Upholding the integrity of the Rockbell name has taken a back seat—no, not quite!" She raised a finger. "It's in the passenger seat and hanging its head out the window to yell at people."

Olivier chuckled at Winry's imagery and pulled out another chair. "I admire your tenacity, Winry. It can't be easy to juggle everything you do. There are times when I feel like my Briggs bears are a bit like unruly children."

Winry drew herself up. "My children are not unruly!" she declared hotly, then added with a grudging wag of her head. "Most of the time."

"Well, there it is. Even the most well-oiled fighting machine gets the odd kink." Olivier smiled cooly. "Not often."

She turned from the younger woman to face Scar, apparently finished with niceties. Winry seemed to pick up on that (having sufficient experience and wisdom of her own to sense that the mood had changed) and she stood up.

"I'd better go see what my _unruly_ children are up to." She waved and walked away.

Scar waited for Olivier to start, neither encouraging nor discouraging it. "Your daughter and the kid make a cute couple," she observed.

Her words and the tone she spoke them in grated. "Which kid? This was Danika's fifteenth birthday. She spent all afternoon dancing with any number of kids."

Olivier's mouth twitched a little with irritation. "You know which kid. Our little prince."

"He has a name."

"I know he does." The general frowned at the table top and let a little of her cool authoritarian demeanor slip. She turned in her seat as K'shushi let out a bark, hunching down on his forelegs with his back end in the air, his feathery tail waving. "It's been pretty well established by now that you're a good man, Andakar Ruhad. Your instinct is to protect. You bring the helpless into your circle of defense and woe to anyone who tries to get past you."

"How am I to do otherwise?" Scar challenged.

Olivier turned back around to face him. "As incredible as this may sound, I have that same instinct. The difference between you and me is that you get too involved." She lifted her hands a little. "Maybe that works for you. I can't afford that. I'm the wall that keeps out an enormous, aggressive threat and I only have my wits and, admittedly, a sizeable amount of manpower to counteract that threat. I don't have the sorts of tricks up my sleeve"—she raised an eyebrow to indicate that she meant that literally as well as figuratively—"that you have and which you are unwilling to share."

Scar bristled. "Don't start. You—and Fullmetal for that matter—need to figure out on your own what prompts my unwillingness. Trust me, it's not professional selfishness."

Olivier just shrugged. "I can take a few guesses—"

"Then take them."

Olivier scowled and shook her head. "Look, we've been down that road already." She pressed her palm against the table top. "What I'm trying to say is that you may think you're doing Dmitri a kindness, and yes, basically, you are, but I knew you were going to get attached to him. What's more, your daughter is getting attached to him. Really attached. Now, you could handle losing him because you're better equipped. But Danika could take it badly."

Her concern might have been sincere, but it bothered him. "Don't presume to tell me how to raise my children. And it was my understanding that ultimately, you would let Dmitri make his own decision."

"My understanding was that you were preparing him for what he may be called to do." A wry smile pulled at the corner of Olivier's mouth. "Leadership training, shall we call it?"

"I am, when opportunities present themselves." Scar replied, not smiling. He glanced across at one of the other tables, where Dmitri and Danika were sitting by themselves. He had overheard them before, practicing Amestrian. "To give my daughter credit where it's due, she's doing her part." He looked back at Olivier. "What I'm trying to do is help Dmitri find the ability to strive beyond what he thinks he can achieve. And if that means defying you, then so be it."

Olivier regarded him coldly for a few moments. Then she leaned in a little closer. "He has not, in fact, been granted asylum officially. He could be deported as an illegal alien."

Scar met the general's gaze steadily even as a rage began building in his chest. "That's low, Olivier. I'm tempted to say despicable." His jaw clenched. " _Shehai li Ishvala_ , woman!" he hissed. "We're supposed to be family!"

She didn't flinch, but the hardness in her eyes softened almost imperceptibly. If he had been only a little further away, he wouldn't have seen it at all. Maybe it was regret. "Sometimes I have to go that low. I don't like it, but there are bigger things at stake."

Regret or not, she meant it. "So either way, you'll send him back there."

A corner of Olivier's lips lifted slightly. "There's a big difference. If he refuses to take on the mission I'm preparing, he is entirely on his own and at the mercy of the Drachman government, which will not be pretty. But if he chooses to go, he'll have all the backup I can provide. And if it all goes tits up, my people will do everything they can to get him out of there."

Scar occasionally played chess and that's what this was beginning to feel like. He also had the sinking feeling that his king was being cornered. He searched her face for any sign of dissembling. He was tempted to grab her arm with both hands to sense if she was lying, which would have a certain irony. He lifted a finger to point at her. "Promise me that," he said with deadly quiet. "Swear to me on whatever you hold dear."

Olivier sat back and looked away, silent for a while. Scar stared at her. Was she considering his words or disregarding them? Was she that cold? Across the cul-de-sac, Shua began strumming his lute and singing in Ishvalan.

_Find me a wife, mother, I want to get married,  
This damn bachelor life, mother, is hard to bear._

_Marry me, mother, to our little neighbor,  
To our little neighbor, pretty Tirana._

_When she walks through the yard barefoot,  
The way she moves her hips makes me burn._

_To our little neighbor, pretty Tirana,  
I can't sleep, mother, I am burning for her._

_During the day I keep watching her, during the night I dream of her,  
All the night I dream of her, I can't sleep._

A smile played on Olivier's lips. Her Ishvalan may have gotten good enough for her to understand the words of the song, and it wasn't as though she had to be concerned over its sentiment. She pointed in Shua's direction.

"There," she said. Her tone was light, but she was utterly serious. "That's what I'll swear on. Will that be good enough?"

Scar glanced across at Shua. There were times when he wondered just what the vatrish saw in this Amestrian woman. Then there were times when he didn't.

"It'll do," he said finally. And so he let the subject drop. She voiced no concern about him holding up his end of the bargain, if that's what this was. Having given her word, he would have to trust her to hold up her end. His mouth set in a grim, hard line. If she didn't, there would be hell to pay.

Sure as pigs is pigs.


	24. Chapter 24

"I am…"

"You are…"

"He is…"

"She is…"

"It is…"

"We are…"

With each conjugation, Mitya raised his chin to the bar suspended from the edge of the overhang roof at the back of the house. By the time he got to third person plural, he started to slow down, but it was a marked improvement from when he first started. He had grown taller, and he had lost his scrawny, underfed look.

The boy had taken to doubling up on certain tasks, practicing language skills while doing something else, usually something physical that wouldn't contend with his mental concentration. Scar approved. It was not unlike some of his regimen as a novice when he was only a few years older than Mitya was now. In fact, he had begun teaching Mitya the same training forms he had learned, using grammar repetition instead of meditational prayers.

On the other hand, Scar wondered if this multi-tasking might be spurred by a sense of urgency. Scar had come to realize that Mitya was a keen observer of everything around him. From what he had learned of the boy, it was as much a means of self-preservation as anything else. Mitya had learned to keep a careful watch on his surroundings and the people in them: who to avoid, what to avoid, places to avoid, situations to avoid. As a result, he had grown inward on himself, creating a kind of invisible protective shell. It must have been a miserable existence.

Now, however, Mitya was opening himself up. He knew he was safe here, so he expended his energy in enlarging himself rather than trying to make himself shrink. Either he was simply enjoying the challenge, the opportunity to prove himself, or he was aware of a vague deadline. Was he more aware of his situation than Scar thought he was? Mitya's understanding of Amestrian was growing every day, but the questions Scar wanted to ask him were more complex than he would be able to understand. He could ask Miles to come and translate for them, but Miles was that link between him and General Armstrong, and as deep as their friendship and brotherhood was, Scar didn't entirely trust Miles to keep such a confidence from her. It was a painful, even shameful thing to have to contemplate, but there it was.

Mitya dropped to his feet on the flagstones and the moment he did, K'shushi, who had been patrolling the yard, came lolloping back with that eternal canine assurance that everyone wanted to play as much as he did. Mitya went down on one knee to scratch K'shushi's ear and murmured something in Drachmani.

Then he smiled and said, "Good dog!"

K'shushi was not particular about which language he was addressed in, as long as someone paid him attention. He leaned into Mitya's hand with utter contentment, then leaned the other way when the boy switched hands to rub his other ear. With a final pat on K'shushi's head, Mitya rose to his feet and joined Scar on the bench against the wall, first picking up a book that sat there.

In his already busy day, Scar had to find time to devote to Mitya one-on-one. This meant early in the morning and later in the evening. He had originally intended only to focus on teaching him Amestrian, but Mitya had displayed an interest in conquering the chin-up bar. From there Scar had begun to teach him the simpler training forms—breathing, movement, awareness, balance. He considered the practicality of teaching him aspects of the martial arts of the warrior-priest, since it was entirely possible that Mitya could probably use some means to defend himself. Although that study was reserved for the priesthood and the trial of several years, the sort of time they didn't have, Scar resolved at some point to teach Mitya some basic techniques. 

But enlarging his mind was just as important. Mitya opened the book and turned the pages. It was an anthology of Amestrian poetry of the previous century. It was not Scar's personal preference, but Ishvalan poetry did not translate well, in his opinion. Half the beauty of it was the flow and music of the language, a quality that Amestrian could not hope to capture. Most of the verses in this book were simple, almost pastoral, and it probably would not be long before Mitya could understand the meaning and not just individual words.

Mitya selected a page and began to read aloud, forming the words with care:

_At wellside, past the ramparts,  
There stands a linden tree.  
While sleeping in its shadow,  
Sweet dreams it sent to me._

_And in its bark I chiseled  
My messages of love:  
My pleasures and my sorrows  
Were welcomed from above._

_Today I had to pass it,  
Well in the depth of night -  
And still, in all the darkness,  
My eyes closed to its sight._

_Its branches bent and rustled,  
As if they called to me:  
Come here, come here, companion,  
Your haven I shall be!_

_The icy winds were blowing,  
Straight in my face they ground.  
The hat tore off my forehead.  
I did not turn around._

_Away I walked for hours  
Whence stands the linden tree,  
And still I hear it whispering:  
You'll find your peace with me!_

Scar looked away from the page to gaze out into the yard, the new green of spring plantings, the early morning slant of sunlight, the warm earth tones of the houses beyond. Cactus wrens and quail lifted their calls. To him, it was an earthly paradise, a balm to the senses, the Ishval that always should have been. Why would anyone want to leave it?

Mitya could not yet understand the meaning behind the poem, and he had chosen it at random. But the imagery struck Scar as an unnerving coincidence. He could easily be attributing too much significance to it, but perhaps Mitya was, by himself, preparing for his departure. As Scar had realized early on, the boy was far from stupid. He could easily understand the situation better than anyone thought he did. He would set off for a destiny he knew he would have to face, and as much as it would hurt to sever the ties he had made here, he would go.

Maybe Olivier was right. Scar would feel the hurt more. He would try to teach the boy to think for himself and make his own decisions, but the offer of a home, a safe haven, would always be open. How much would it hurt to have the offer declined? Scar shook his head slightly. He could not place that additional burden on Mitya if he felt he was needed elsewhere.

" _Zhaarad_ Andakar?"

Scar returned from his thoughts to find Mitya looking up at him with a questioning, almost concerned look. What might the boy have seen in his face? Scar smiled reassuringly, brought back to the moment. Mitya had read the entire poem without any errors, his pronunciation laced with only a mild accent.

"Well done," Scar said. He nodded toward the book. "Do you understand?"

Mitya looked back down at the page and gave a tentative nod. "A tree…the tree…" Either was acceptable, but the boy understood the difference. "The tree is…sad?" He looked back up for confirmation.

Scar was constantly underestimating this boy, a mistake a lot of people seemed to make. After a moment, he nodded. "The tree is sad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Der Lindenbaum_ (The Linden Tree) by Wilhelm Mueller, translated by Walter A. Aue


	25. Chapter 25

The wheelchair had already been equipped to navigate over terrain rougher than a city sidewalk. Its original owner had tinkered with it, expanding it from its limitations. Its new owner found the ride over the somewhat irregular flagstones of Kanda's marketplace fairly comfortable, and whoever pushed her did so without too much effort.

Mitya was a good boy, and from someone as particular as Zulema, that was high praise. He did what he was told, and he did so with a becoming grace. She was even a bit proud of herself for making her little contribution to his education. She chatted to him, or rather, at him, and although he was quiet, it was more from attentive courtesy than from not knowing what she was saying because she knew he was listening closely. His replies were short and careful, but she could tell that his comprehension was better than he let on.

She enjoyed her regular trips to the marketplace. She didn't have much that she actually needed to buy; what she went for was the give and take of gossip, an absolute essential as far as she was concerned. It wasn't malicious tittle-tattle. Far from it. She needed to feel the pulse of her community. If someone's child was sick, if some couple was having marital troubles, if some young person was doing something they ought not to be doing, she wanted to know so she could give them the benefit of her wisdom. She was one of the oldest, if not the oldest inhabitant of Ishval, and she had seen much come and go. She had known deprivation, she had known grief, she had lived through many changes. She had a strength and wisdom equal to that of the _khorovar_ and the colonel and she meant to put it to good use while she still could.

Zulema sat comfortably and gazed around. She waved to the produce vendor as they passed by his stall full of vegetables and fruit. "That man's daughter went off to some school in Amestris to learn nursing," she informed Mitya. "There's nothing wrong with being a market gardener. Minur makes a respectable living, but young folk these days aren't content to follow their parents, more's the pity." She shook her head. "I despair of these modern times. When I was a girl, life was sometimes hard, but for all that, it was a more graceful age. Do you know, some of our young fellows—and even some of our young maidens, shehai li Ishvala!—have gone off to the military academy! Are we at war, I ask you? They say they'll all come back to Ishval, but once they've gone off to the big cities with all their lures and bright lights and easy virtue, will they truly want to come back here where things are proper? I ask you!"

Mitya made no reply. Zulema looked over her shoulder. "Young people," she said clearly, summing up her speech to its barest component.

Mitya bent down a little toward her. "Young people?"

"Yes. Young people. They are silly." Zulema glanced back. "You understand silly?"

Mitya nodded his comprehension. "Silly."

"Not you, though," Zulema added as an afterthought. "You are not silly. You are a good boy."

She heard Mitya let out a quiet laugh. "Thank you, _babushka_ —oh!" He caught himself. " _Baata_."

Zulema turned in her seat again. " _Eh-h?_ What was that?"

Mitya laughed again. " _Baata. Babushka_. They are…same."

"Ah. I see!" Zulema mused. It was not to be wondered at, after all. It was a universal truth, or ought to be at any rate, that young folk addressed their elders properly. It stood to reason that the forms of address would be similar. She rather liked the sound of it.

As they rolled by the carpet shop, Nenya stepped out and Mitya obligingly came to a stop. "A fine morning, Zulema!" the carpet weaver said in greeting.

"Thank Ishvala," Zulema replied. Nothing should be taken for granted.

Nenya turned to the boy. "Good morning, Mitya!"

"Good morning, _Zhaarana_ Nenya," the boy replied politely.

Nenya chuckled and reached out to pat Mitya on the cheek. "You look so healthy! So much better than when I first laid eyes on you, poor chick!" She looked down at Zulema and switched to Ishvalan, not out of discourtesy or to confuse the boy, but it came more naturally when talking to someone like Zulema. "White as milk he was, and shaking like a leaf! Now look at him! He's grown two - - no, three inches, I'm sure of it!"

Zulema nodded. She had heard the story a number of times, but these things deserved repeating. "He's flourishing here, truly. The _khorovar_ and his wife have taken good care of him."

"Ah, well, the _khorovar_ would take up every nestling that fell at his feet," Nenya said with a slight roll of her eyes. "Ishvala gave each of us a certain breadth to our hands and the sense to know when our hands overflow." She gave a little sniff. "Not that one."

Zulema chuckled. "Well, isn't that why we chose him as the _khorovar_? Every nestling is dear to him."

Nenya sighed and smiled benignly. "That is Ishvala's own truth, _baata_ Zulee."

"And how are your little grandnephews?" Zulema went on. "Wasn't Azar feeling poorly the other day?"

"His little belly was out of sorts, yes," Nenya replied. "I gave him ginger and fennel seed tea."

Zulema nodded sagely. "The very thing."

Nenya waved her hand. "It's no wonder he got sick, the way my niece and her husband fuss over that hotel more than their own son."

"They know you do all the fussing for both of them."

Nenya laughed. "Ah, Zulema, that is our calling, is it not?" She smiled at Mitya again and switched back to Amestrian. "And where are you heading now?"

"To Havoc's," Zulema replied. "I have some new knitting needles waiting for me there."

"Ah. Well, I'll let you get on, then," Nenya said with a parting wave.

"Good-bye, _Zhaarana_ Nenya," Mitya said as he pushed the wheelchair along.

They headed on down the street, Zulema greeting various merchants and passers-by. She would occasionally direct Mitya to stop at this stall or that shop, where she pinched melons or ran a hand over a piece of fabric or passed the time of day. She would make a point of asking Mitya simple questions, having him identify an object, and if he didn't know the word for it, she would tell him.

They reached Havoc's General Store and Mitya rolled the wheelchair through the doors. The shop was spacious, and Jean Havoc had made sure that there was ample room for wheelchairs, having had enough experience of non-wheelchair accessibility in his time. They found Havoc behind the counter wrapping up a parcel for one of the soldiers from the fort.

"There ya go, Corp'!"

"Thanks, Havoc." The soldier tapped his forehead in a brief salute and turned toward the door. He nodded to Zulema. "Morning, _baata_!" he greeted her briskly as he passed by.

"Good morning, _baata_ Zulee!" Havoc called out. He gave a friendly nod to Mitya. " _Privyet!_ "

"Hello," the boy replied.

Havoc chuckled. "Your Amestrian is probably a lot better than my Drachmani by now." He turned back to Zulema. "I've got your needles right here."

Mitya rolled the wheelchair close to the counter and Havoc held out a long, thin parcel. Zulema took her time to unwrap it, and when she did so, she stared at the contents. "What are these?"

"They're knitting needles, _baata_ ," Havoc said with a grin. "They're aluminum."

Zulema slid the needles from their package. They were light blue and the heads were silver and had the number "7" embossed on them. She had to admit, they were rather handsome.

"My mom swears by 'em," Havoc went on. "She used to use wooden ones, like you, but she says these are ten times better 'cause the yarn just slides on and off. And they don't break or get splinters. I guarantee you'll like 'em, or I'll cheerfully refund your money!"

"Well, well." Zulema wrapped the needles back in the brown paper. "What will they think of next?"

"Who knows? You want me to put those on your tab?"

"Yes, thank you." Miles and his family took good care of her (which was only right and proper), but Zulema was proud of herself for having her own small income. As long as her fingers didn't fail her, she could still spin a fine skein of yarn and knit a blanket or a sweater. She'd even been asked by the soldiers to knit scarves and mittens for family and friends in colder climates. They seemed to think it was funny that such a thing should come from the desert, where they were not needed more than a few days out of the entire year.

"Anything else for you today, _baata_ Zulee?"

"No, I don't think so," Zulema replied, glancing around the store to see if something caught her eye.

"I just got in some new soap," Havoc suggested. "Right down there at the end of the counter."

That pricked Zulema's interest. "Do tell?" She had her little weaknesses, one of them being the fancy little bath soaps that were so popular with Amestrian ladies. They smelled of flowers that grew in other places. It was a small vanity, but she had grown accustomed to smelling nice. She pointed toward the display at the end of the counter. "That way, Mitya."

The boy turned her chair and pushed her up in front of the small table that displayed a collection of pastel soaps in various shapes—round, square, even flower-shapes, which tickled her fancy. While she was bringing them up to her nose to check their fragrance, other people entered the store.

"Good morning, Jean!" a masculine voice uttered.

"'Morning, Dr. Seb!" Havoc called back. "How's tricks?"

"It's starting to warm up out there."

Havoc chuckled. "No kidding?"

Zulema looked around and her shoulders hunched just a little. _Zhaarana_ Sophia's brother-in-law, Sebastian, was standing at the counter. He was a decent fellow, polite and mostly proper, but he was a tempter of fate. He was digging up the sacred ruins of Old Ishval. At first, Zulema was shocked at the idea. For hundreds of years the old city had been left in peace, as it should have been. After Miles and the _khorovar_ and even _Saahad_ Bozidar had explained to her that this was no sacrilege and was even a benefit to their people, she was somewhat mollified, but only somewhat. Every now and then there would be some news about something or other having been discovered and dug up and put on display. Just little things like pots or coins or tools or jewelry or even children's toys. These things once belonged to someone and it was too much like grave robbing, as far as she was concerned.

When they started to find human bones, then she spoke up. It wasn't decent. She had learned from her childhood that the prayers had been said over those lost in the Great Earthquake after it had happened. Rihir, priest and brother to Vozrahir, the past prince of Ishval, had spoken the words himself. This was after he had declared, in the heat of his grief, that the land was cursed. Cursed by Ishvala and then blessed by a man, as well as a mere man could do. No one had set foot amongst them since. Well, perhaps some young fellows dared each other, or perhaps even foreigners had come over the mountains to pick over the ruins for loot, but no one proper would do such a thing.

Zulema tried not to let it bother her too much. That fellow, Knox, who had found the remains of her own beloved Zahar all those years ago, had been reading life back into these ancient bones as well. Men, women, children, nobly-born or common folk, he could read their bones like a book. He gave them lives beyond just being a history that was lost. _Saahad_ Bozidar had given his blessing to have the bones removed and reburied, saying the prayers yet again. It was all done very properly, but it still didn't seem quite right.

Then came the earthquake a month ago. It was no coincidence, Zulema thought, as much as most everyone else just explained it away as "natural phenomena" or some such like. People didn't seem to realize that these things weren't really separate. They may not lay right next to each other, but they were all links in a chain. That was life.

"Well, good morning, _baata_ Zulema!" Sebastian declared, stepping over to her chair. He gave Mitya a nod. " _Dobroye utro, molodoi chelovyek_!"

"Now, now," Zulema corrected him. "He's trying to learn Amestrian."

"Oh, I know," Sebastian replied. "But I like to keep my hand in, language-wise."

"Good morning, _Zhaarad_ Sebastian," the boy said politely.

Sebastian held up a finger. "Actually, my boy, while Ishvalan forms of address are perfectly acceptable here, once you get out into the greater world, you'll want to remember to be flexible with you honorifics. Like mister or missus or, in my case, Doctor McNeese, or perhaps even Doctor Seb, as our good proprietor over here calls me."

Zulema looked up at the slightly confused but concentrated look on the boy's face and she clicked her tongue. "You're muddling the poor boy!" she complained.

"Oh, I don't think so," Sebastian said with a shrewd smile. "This boy is like a sponge. He's soaking up everything he can and he's doing a good job." He winked at Mitya. " _Pravda li?_ "

Mitya smiled back. "I think so…Doctor McNeese."

Zulema lifted her hands. " _Eh-h!_ What a clever fellow!"

Sebastian chuckled. "Told you so."

"And you." Zulema eyed the archeologist. "What have you dug up today?"

"Oh, _baata!" Sebastian pressed his hand over his heart. "You say that like I've done something naughty! Actually," he went on, warming to his subject, "we're closing in on the very center of Old Ishval. We're still working on the outlying areas, but I just couldn't wait!"_

_Zulema frowned a little. "The very center? You mean, the Great Temple?"_

_Sebastian nodded. "That's right. And I'll have you know that your very own _Saahad_ Bozidar is rather excited about it, too. Apparently there was a library purported to be underneath the temple. Think of all the knowledge and history buried there!"_

_Zulema wasn't sure it was worth it. "Hm. Well, you'd best go carefully, _lahaat_ ," she warned ominously._

_"Oh, there's no fear about that. I've excavated any number of sites. My workers and I have always come out unscathed."_

_Zulema just nodded and turned her attention back to the soap display. That wasn't what she meant._


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept mentioning another Armstrong family member, Phillip's youngest sister Isabella Bianca, but I never introduced her. So I added a bit at the beginning of this chapter. It's mainly for myself because I hate loose ends. Picture her appearance as a sort of older Olivier. She's a bohemian artist type.

Isabelle McNeese nee Armstrong gracefully defined her own style at a time when society ladies were constantly copying whatever the latest fashion magazines told them they ought to be doing.

Dressed in soft loose trousers, a pair of silk Xingese slippers, and an embroidered Ishvalan tunic that doubled as a painter's smock, Bella applied warm pinks and oranges to a watercolor of the sunrise that was blossoming over the Eastern mountains. Bella had come to adore Ishval. She felt more at home here than in the well-to-do drawing rooms of her family's friends. She supposed her niece Olivier felt much the same way about her northern citadel, although for different reasons, assuredly.

"You're up early, my lovely!"

Bella smiled, hearing the crunch of footsteps behind her. "Of course, I'm up early. That's when sunrise happens, my dear doctor."

Seb leaned over her shoulder to kiss her on the cheek. "Silly me."

"Silly you," Bella agreed affectionately, adding a sharper edge to one of the shadowed mountain ridges. "Are you excited?"

"About the library? I should say I was." Seb took his pipe from his pocket and scooped it into a pouch of tobacco. "Can you picture it, Bella? A thousand-year-old library, probably fairly intact, buried right under our feet? I can't even begin to imagine all the history we're about to uncover! It's going to b brilliant!"

Bella cocked her head to gaze critically at her piece. She was at that point where an artist had to decide if enough was enough. She decided it was and set down her palette. "Will there be a ribbon cutting ceremony?"

Seb chuckled as he lit his pipe, drawing on it to get it glowing. "No, but I do expect a number of visitors." He shook out his match. "Including the _khorovar_ and young Mr. Otrepyev."

"Hm!" Bella scowled as she put her tubes of watercolors away in their box. "I'm still irritated at Olivier about that boy! And you know that's saying something, coming from me. She is my favorite niece. I mean, I'm sure she knows what she's doing..."

"You mean, you _hope_ she knows what she's doing," Seb added.

Bella shook her head. "I'm by no means a military strategist or a master of espionage, but this seems so terribly risky. Dmitri is not one of her bears."

Seb laid a hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "I know, my lovely. Olivier has always expected rather a lot of other people, whether they're her bears or not. We can grumble about it all we want, but she's nothing if not single-minded. She's not going to listen to us."

Bella studied her painting with a frown. It would need more time to dry before she could pack it up. She reached into her battered leather satchel for her thermos and poured some coffee into the attached cup. "No, she's not. But if this business of hers goes pear-shaped, I'll have a few choice words for her, favorite niece or not."

Seb blew some aromatic smoke into the morning air. "You and a few other people, I think."

* * *

The feeling was back. There had been two very mild tremors since the one on Danika's birthday. One of them had happened late at night and had been commented on by only a few people; others claimed they hadn't even noticed.

Scar stood outside the back of his house, watching K'shushi as the shepherd mix restlessly prowled the perimeter of the yard. At one point the dog started digging, and Scar had to call out sharply for him to stop. The poor animal trotted over to him and sat down in front of him, whimpering softly, his feathery tail sweeping the ground behind him. Scar bent down and patted him on the head and rubbed his ears.

"I know," he commiserated quietly. "It's there, all right. But you're not going to able to dig it up."

Scar then frowned at the ground, indulging in a silent debate. The scholar in him couldn't help being curious. The faithful Ishvalan who would never quite get over his distrust of alchemy didn't really want to know.

But this was his land and the people who lived here were under his protection. The choice, really, was clear.

He knelt down and, after having to push K'shushi away while the dog kept trying to lick his face, he pressed his palms against the bare earth. He sucked in a hiss of breath. The steady, indomitable flow that was the life's blood of the earth had a pronounced hitch in it, like the turning of an unbalanced wheel over a rutted road. It was irritating, but in itself nothing to be too alarmed about. What lay beneath it was a different matter. It was a swelling, growing, pushing sense of anticipation which was odd at best and at worst, ominous.

Scar closed his eyes and dug deeper with his senses, going from a simple passive sensing to a more aggressive reaching out. In his mind's eye it was as though he was sending out exploratory tendrils of his hybrid alchemy. This was yet another ability that he hadn't spoken about to anyone, and he was very cautious. He went deep, through the topsoil, just past the hardpan layer of _kalcheh_ , then branching out in different directions. He wasn't sure what he was going to find; he was simply looking for anything out of the ordinary.

The sensation of pressure grew a little stronger in an easterly direction. Ominous was, perhaps, too subjective a term. The earth was simply what it was. Once Ishvala had created it, it was sent spinning in its traces. It was not a dead piece of rock. Its ages came and went and it had its own dynamism and its own growing pains, without intent or malice. But something was going to happen, there was no doubt about that. There was no telling what its intensity might be.

The familiar clink of metal came from just inside the back door and Scar straightened up, brushing the dirt from his hands.

"What were you up to there?"

Scar turned around. "There was a sharp rock in my sandal, but when I bent down to get rid of it, I couldn't shift it. Then I realized it was you."

Edward Elric made a sneering smirk as he sat down on the bench against the back wall of the house. "Ha ha. Bet you were up all night thinking up that one."

He had come the day before on his way back from Xing. The railway made it a much faster trip. Scar would hope that the younger man would not spend too much time travelling when his wife was due so soon. Objectively, he supposed he understood Edward's hunger for knowledge, but a man had to have his priorities, and a husband and father especially so. Winry must have seen something in him to have accepted his rather pitiful excuse at a marriage proposal, but there was only so much even a woman of such boundless forgiveness could tolerate.

He should have left by the morning train, but when he heard that Scar was going to take Danika and Mitya out to the dig site, he invited himself along, saying that he had plenty of time to spare before Winry's due date. Scar could foresee trouble.

"Are you sure you shouldn't be trying to catch the train back to Resembool?"

Edward leaned against the wall and crossed his automail leg over his flesh one. "You trying to get rid of me?"

"Yes. Not that I begrudge you my hospitality—"

"Rada's the one who said the invitation is open," Edward reminded him.

"She has a generous, giving nature," Scar replied sedately. "So does Winry, but do you want to test it? I don't."

Edward scowled. "You let me worry about Winry, okay? She understands me." His expression lightened. "She knows I can't resist being a part of history. I wanna see this ancient library when it gets opened up. Hell, you're bringing your kids, aren't you?"

"Only Danika and Mitya," Scar corrected him. "Mattas would probably make something collapse."

Edward chuckled. "Yeah, Urey's kind of like that, too. He's always climbing on stuff." He drew in a deep breath of fresh morning air. "Mitya really seems to be thriving."

Scar nodded. "I'd like to think so. He's already outgrown the clothes we bought him when he first came here." He pointed to the bar hanging from the edge of the patio overhang. "He's up to ten chin-ups."

"Nice." Ed got up and went over to the bar. With an easy jump he grabbed it and pulled himself up. "So now what?"

"About Mitya?" Scar sighed. "It appears that ultimately he will be sent back to Drachma, whether he wants to go or not."

"Huh!" Ed grunted, doing a few more chin-ups in an easy rhythm. "I'm guessing General Armstrong pulled some kind of dirty trick. 'Cause I can't imagine you letting that happen otherwise."

"Something like that," Scar grumbled. "All I can do is trust her judgment—"

He cut himself short as Danika and Mitya appeared in the doorway.

"We are ready, _Zhaarad_!" Mitya announced with a smile. His Amestrian had improved rapidly, and he had even started picking up some Ishvalan without getting them mixed up.

"Mama packed a lunch!" Danika added.

Ed let go of the bar and dropped to the ground. "That'll make the trip worth it all by itself."

They went back through the house. Scar gave Rada a parting kiss. "We'll be back by early evening."

"All right." Rada turned to the two teenagers. "You two be careful," she warned them. "Don't fall down any holes." She turned a little smirk to the older men. "You either."

Mattas leaned over the stairway railing. "When can I go?" he grumbled.

Scar sighed. "Soon. Maybe."

Mattas gave a roll of his eyes. "Maybe" was seldom a cause for optimism.

Scar took the basket Rada had packed and the four left the house, heading for the nearest access road. A large car stood at the foot of the steps and Alex Armstrong, who was back visiting his family, stood beside it.

"Good morning!" he called out. "Well met, Edward Elric! I heard you were back!"

Danika waved. "Good morning, Major Armstrong!"

"Ah, I see you're ready for adventure!" Alex rumbled with a laugh. "Allow me to secure your basket."

He unlocked the trunk of the car and Scar handed him the basket. Alex set it inside next to his art supplies and then straightened up, holding a broad-brimmed straw hat. "This," he announced, "is for you, young fellow." He put it on Mitya's head. "The desert sun is not kind to northern complexions."

Danika gave a little giggle and Mitya grinned. "Thank you, Major."

Ed managed to call shotgun unchallenged. Scar and the kids were content with the back seat. They drove through the web of access roads of what was commonly referred to as "Ishval Proper", meaning where everybody lived. Then they hit the open road, passing a couple of goat herds on the way. As they approached Fort Ishval, the soldiers patrolling near the walls snapped a salute to Major Armstrong. Foremost among them was Colonel Miles' new adjutant, Captain Brodnax-Fitzgeoffrey, sitting tall in the saddle.

Major Armstrong slowed to as stop as the captain road up to the car. "Good morning, Galahad!" Alex greeted his brother-in-law.

"Good morning, sir," the proper young captain replied. "Heading out to the dig?" He flashed a dazzling smile. "Quite a family affair today. Uncle Seb and Dot went out quite early. Bella's out there, too. She wanted to catch an Ishvalan sunrise in watercolors."

Galahad leaned a little in his saddle and nodded to Scar. "Good morning, _Zhaarad Khorovar, Zhaarana_ Danika. Good to see you again, Mr. Elric." To Mitya he said something in perfect Drachmani, which the boy answered in kind.

They continued on their way, driving through green fields of cotton and grains. Ed liked it here. He had never seen Ishval either before the war or in its devastated state afterwards. His image was of a surprisingly green land. Not rolling hills of grass like Resembool, but green nonetheless.

Ed still found it hard sometimes to reconcile the character of the man who was primarily responsible for all this greenery and the accompanying prosperity with the man who had taken so many lives, including the couple who would have been Ed's in-laws. It wasn't as though he refused to reconcile the two; it was just hard to believe. He'd have thought that after all these years he would have just gotten over it. Winry had.

No, that wasn't quite right. Winry felt things very deeply, and she didn't just let things go. Profound emotions like grief and hatred and rage don't just disappear. Those emotions had to go somewhere. What Winry did was to turn them around. Ed smiled to himself as he gazed at the window. Kind of the way the giant transmutation circle got turned around. All because of an Ishvalan. Life was funny that way.

After a time the landscape opened up to include pale grassland, dotted with a few gnarled oaks, which was a surprise to Ed. He had never been in this part of Ishval before. To the south, the Halik was flowing high, still swollen from snowmelt from the far eastern mountains. Ed recalled that once Amestris annexed Ishval, they had cut the people off from all this land, concentrating them in the western area, right along the path of the transmutation circle. It still made him angry.

Eventually they came to the site of Old Ishval. From what Ed had learned, the ancient city-state was larger than what Ishval Proper was now, and it had been a thriving metropolis, much like Xerxes had been. The dig would take years to be completed, partly because of the sheer scope and partly because Dr. Sebastian McNeese was known for his meticulousness. There were small teams, mostly students, working in various locations around the site. Dr. McNeese was heading up the opening of what was hoped to be the entrance of the temple library. They had the advantage of having some documentation of its approximate location. _Saahad_ Bozidar had some extremely old books that were themselves copies of even older books that contained historical details of the ancient city.

Alex Armstrong parked the car as close as he could to the site. A small crowd of students in dusty khaki were gathered around Dr. McNeese. They were looking down into a rectangular hole in the ground. Behind them, canvas canopies stood over tables holding all manner of items from simple debris to artifacts, which were being sorted and identified by other groups of students and researchers.

As Scar and the others approached, Dr. McNeese looked up and waved. "Ah! Excellent! You made it!"

Drawing closer, they could see the rectangular opening led underground by way of a rough set of steps. "It's turning out to be quite roomy down there," Seb went on. "Once we cleared it out, that is." He grinned apologetically. " _Saahad_ Bozidar already dove in, I'm afraid. We couldn't hold him back any longer."

"So we missed the grand opening?" Ed remarked, feeling just a little disappointed.

"Well…" Seb shrugged. "It wasn't like it was a sealed burial chamber." He chuckled. "Bozidar's already trying to shelve books."

Scar drew in a sharp breath. "There really are books down there?"

Seb smiled and nodded. "There are indeed." He headed back down the steps, waving over his shoulder. "Come and see. Just watch your step."

They descended the steps, which were wide enough for two people to walk side by side, and they ended up in a circular chamber illuminated by four kerosene lanterns. The vaulted ceiling, whose ribs had a lot of chunks missing, hence much of the debris, was roughly double an average man's height at its highest point. All along the walls were floor to ceiling shelves, thick wood set into wide niches in the stone blocks of the walls and in surprisingly good condition. They were probably made of something hard and heavy like oak. On these shelves, in various states of disarray and decay, were books and scrolls, as well as boxes and small chests made of wood and metal.

In the midst of all this was the old priest, Bozidar. He was sitting on a block of stone that jutted out from the wall between two sets of shelving. He cradled three or four ancient, dusty tomes in his arms like they were infants, and he was weeping. Sitting beside him was a young woman who was patting his shoulder comfortingly.

Scar dropped to one knee before his old master. " _Saahad_!" he murmured with affectionate concern.

Overcome, Bozidar could only shake his head. The young woman, Dr. McNeese's daughter, Dot, as Ed recalled, answered for him. "He's really quite happy," Dot explained with a smile. "It's like he's found old friends he thought he'd lost."

Ed couldn't blame the man. He gazed around the chamber. Deeper in, the rubble was thicker, and it was clear that some of the books and artifacts had been crushed either in the original earthquake or from subsequent decay. Even so, it was a fabulous discovery. An astounding wealth of lost knowledge, frozen in time and buried for a millennium. Ed knew he wouldn't be able to understand anything that was written on any of these pages, but it still gave him goosebumps.

There were a few workers in the chamber as well, carefully gathering up some of the books and laying them in straw-lined wooden crates to take them outside. Some of the books had plain leather bindings; others were more ornate, bound with metal.

Danika and Mitya were gazing around them in wonder. Sometimes it was a little hard for young kids to fathom extreme age, but it was a little hard not to feel awestruck when surrounded by antiquity.

Having left his master in Dot's care, Scar got up and walked around the chamber as well. Ed would have thought that he'd be just as overjoyed as the old priest, but he had a tense frown on his face. Granted, he couldn't even picture Scar being overjoyed. Maybe he was and he just frowned about everything.

Ed drew closer to him. "Kind of thought you'd be a little more tickled by all of this."

Scar drew in a deep breath. Ed thought he heard it shake just a little. "I'm stunned," Scar admitted. He gave a slight roll of his shoulders. "I'm just feeling a little…claustrophobic."

Ed shrugged. "It's not like it's that far underground."

"It's far enough," Scar muttered.

"Why is it underground at all, Papa?" Danika asked, peering along one of the shelves.

"It's cooler down here," Scar replied.

Dr. McNeese nodded. "Priests and scholars could spend hours down here and not be troubled by the heat." He pointed to the far side of the chamber, where a wide arched passage was blocked by more rubble. "It's quite extensive. According to _Saahad_ Bozidar, there should be two more chambers this size through there, as well as another staircase going up into what was the temple."

Danika gave a little gasp. "Was anyone caught down here during the Great Earthquake?"

"Ah." Dr. McNeese put his hands in his pockets. "Well, according to some of the chronicles written after the earthquake…" He glanced over at Bozidar, who was just now pulling himself together with the help of a clean handkerchief Dot have given him. "It's possible that someone was down here and who was not accounted for afterwards. A scribe, I believe. We haven't found anyone yet, but if we do, we'll have Dr. Knox along to make an examination."

"He's still kicking around, huh?" Ed said with a chuckle.

During this exchange Scar was slowly prowling around the chamber, examining its contents but looking kind of distracted. Suddenly he headed for the staircase. "Danika, Mitya, don't get in the way of the workers. I'll be outside."

The kids nodded and looked after him as he went quickly up the stairs. They seemed a little puzzled, so Ed knew he wasn't the only one who had noticed. He had pretty much seen what there was to see at the moment, so he headed for the stairs as well, spurred by curiosity that, since this was Scar, would always be laced with the slightest bit of suspicion. He couldn't help it.


	27. Chapter 27

It made sense, he supposed, that the farther away from the ground he was, the sensation lessened. He stood on a large block of stone and looked out silently at the rough outline of what was once a circular structure—the Great Temple of Old Ishval. It held more significance than the royal palace where the throne of the prince once stood. The Temple was the heart and soul of Ishval, both ancient and modern, the very center, and everything radiated out from it.

Scar was only marginally considering these facts. He was taking slow, deep breaths, trying to dispel the sense of unease that had flared in the underground chamber. He considered going back and warning everyone to get out of there, but he couldn't be sure if anything was even imminent. He didn't want anyone to panic, nor did he want to be questioned too closely as the why he felt these precautions were necessary.

As he stood there he heard Edward's unique footsteps approaching.

"So, what's eating you?" the younger man asked.

Scar lifted his shoulders slightly. "Like I said. It was just a little too close down in that chamber."

Ed scoffed as he stopped alongside the block of stone. "A fine scholar you would've been back then."

"I suppose it just reminded me a little too much of that labyrinth below Central, the lair of the homunculi." Scar generally abhorred lying, but what he said wasn't entirely untrue.

Ed climbed up onto the top of the stone. "I guess that makes sense," he said a little dryly, as if he could sense the prevarication. He didn't pursue the matter. He gazed out at the ruins for several moments.

"It's a big circle," he observed finally.

"Yes," Scar agreed. "Temples are always round."

"Yeah, but you can tell the whole thing is round. The whole city."

"So is modern day Ishval."

Edward nodded. "So is Amestris. Don't you think that's a little…I don't know…ironic?"

"Not really. Old Ishval had already fallen and was being rebuilt before Amestris was even created," Scar replied. "Because of its symmetry, the circle is considered a perfect shape." Scar raised his arm to indicate the land around them. "The ancients saw it as a kind of symbol of creation because the shape occurs so often in nature. The circle is at once elegant and efficient."

"It's also one of the most important aspects of alchemy," Edward added. "The circle focuses and controls the flow of energy."

"Which is an effect rather than a cause."

"I know that," Edward said, a little testily. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "Y'know, sometimes I think I liked you better before."

Scar didn't have to ask what Edward meant by 'before.' He lifted an eyebrow. "Now that's ironic."

"Isn't it?" Edward chuckled. "You weren't so pedantic back in the good old days."

" _Pedantic?_ " Scar shot a glare at the younger man. "And how, exactly, were the 'old days' good?"

"Still being ironic. But you have kind of lost your sense of adventure."

"Trying to govern this land is enough of an escapade."

"If you don't like it, why don't you step down and let someone else do it?"

Scar glowered. "I didn't say I didn't like it. I—"

He swayed a little, nearly losing his balance and falling off the stone block. Edward grabbed his arm, his smirk disappearing. "What's the matter?"

The sensation, which Scar had been trying to ignore, stirred and shifted, intensifying with a frightening suddenness. He stared out before him, although there was nothing to see except what was left of the circular foundation of the once magnificent temple.

He couldn't ignore it anymore. " _Ishvala!_ " he hissed in a whisper.

Edward still gripped his arm. "What!" he demanded. "What is it?"

His breathing growing short, Scar looked back at where the entrance to the underground library was, then he turned back to stare at the center point of where the temple once stood. The sensation was beginning to grow to sickening proportions, even from his perch atop the stone. The enormity of the idea that formed in his mind made him even dizzier.

Scar pushed at Edward, urging him away. "Get those people out of that chamber, now!"

Edward hesitated only for a moment, staring at Scar. Then the block began to shift below their feet. His golden eyes flew wide and he vaulted off the stone block and ran back toward the underground chamber.

Scar was only barely aware of Edward shouting and of other voices calling back. He had only the slimmest idea of what he was doing, but he could only trust in his own flawed abilities, his brother's research, and Ishvala's mercy.

The stone lurched, pitching him off. He landed stumbling on the ground, which had taken on a grotesque life of its own, rippling and roiling like a storm at sea. Somewhere in the distance he could now hear screams and shouts of fear and the sound of stone grinding against stone. At one point he was thrown off his feet by the violence of the quake and it was all he could do to barely scramble upright, cursing the lost seconds. He could only imagine the devastation that was being caused elsewhere.

Having surveyed it before, he had a good idea of where the actual center of the temple would have been. He hadn't really thought much beyond that at that point; now it was a matter of life and death to reach it. He didn't even know if this was going to work.

The only feature to recommend itself as the very center of the circle of the temple and, by extension, the center of Old Ishval, was the outline of a half-buried, broken slab of stone that must have been where the altar once stood. If so, it would have to serve. Scar faltered to his knees and slammed the palms of his hands onto the ground and, sending up a wild, frantic prayer, he unleashed all the harmony of alchemy and alkahestry that he could, hoping that it would find a purchase.

Something began to happen. He couldn't quite describe it. It was almost like he was once again perched on the back of the grotesque green monster that was Envy's true form, except that whatever was beneath him fought and writhed even stronger. He pushed back, not so much with physical force but pouring every ounce of his own will into the arrays on his arms. They began to glow, and he could feel the tattoos grow hot, then searing. He let out a long, hoarse roar, partly from pain but also, however desperately, to tip the balance between the massive forces of nature and his frenzied efforts.

* * *

As fascinating as the buried library and its contents were, Mitya couldn't stop glancing back at the stairway that led to the surface. Something didn't seem quite right about _Zhaarad_ Andakar. He was always such a pillar of certainty, an implacable force of nature. It was strange to see him unsettled. He knew that Danika had noticed, but he wasn't sure anyone else had. When _Zhaarad_ Andakar left, Mitya and Danika exchanged looks, each wondering just how concerned they ought to be.

They moved closer to each other. " _Zhaarad_ Andakar," Mitya said in a low voice. "He is…trouble?"

"Troubled," Danika corrected him softly. She nodded. "I know. It's strange."

Edward Elric, who was once again a guest of the Ruhad family, went up the stairs only a few minutes later. He must have noticed something as well. After a time, neither Mitya or Danika were taking much more interest in the underground chamber, and they made their way back to the surface. Squinting against the bright sunlight, they shaded their eyes and looked around.

Mitya saw them first. They were easy to spot. In the near distance, the two men were standing on a block or something, talking. Mitya touched Danika's arm and pointed. The picture looked perfectly normal and was even somewhat calming.

"Oh, good!" Danika breathed. She moved forward. "Let's go over there."

The way was strewn with bits of rubble, some loose, some buried, but not difficult to pick their way through. They were about halfway there when the ground lurched under their feet. It was just like what had happened on Danika's birthday, only it increased in intensity very quickly. The two teenagers froze where they stood, staring at each other.

Edward came barreling up to them and ran past. "Stay there!" he yelled at them.

There was shouting and screaming all around them now. The ground bucked beneath them and Danika let out a frightened cry. Mitya threw an arm around her and they both crouched down, rather than fall. Blocks of rubble shifted around them as though they were alive.

"Papa!" Danika called fearfully.

Mitya raised his head and searched for _Zhaarad_ Andakar. He had left the block of stone where he had been standing and had moved further away. Mitya could just see him crouching to the ground, just as they had, but he was pressing his hands to the ground. As he watched, Mitya could see the tattoos on Andakar's forearms begin to glow blue, as though lit up from within. Then they turned white, and Andakar let out a long, loud, feral howl.

Then everything went still. Having been bracing themselves against the movement of the earth, Mitya and Danika nearly fell on their faces. The quake probably hadn't lasted more than ten or fifteen seconds, but it had seemed much longer. The two teenagers raised themselves up cautiously and looked around. They could see Andakar rising slowly to his feet, falter a little, then drop to one knee.

Danika scrambled up and began to run across the distance that separated them. Mitya couldn't quite move yet. He was still in a state of shock, not just from the earthquake, but from watching a man cause it to cease. In a way, he wasn't really surprised.

* * *

Ed hadn't made it in time to get the people out of the chamber. The entrance to the chamber had crumbled in on itself and a cloud of dust was only just beginning to dissipate. When the earthquake stopped with a strange suddenness, Ed dropped to his knees at what had been the mouth of the chamber. Only the top half of the steps were visible.

Dr. McNeese was also on his knees, waving away the residual dust and coughing. He moved down the steps as far as he could go, staring despairingly at the rubble that now filled the entrance. His wife Isabella was just running up, skidding to a stop on the loose stones. Her face was white as chalk. Ed had been struck by her resemblance to General Armstrong, but he couldn't imagine the major general getting that out of countenance by something as simple as an earthquake.

"Dot!" Dr. McNeese roared out. "Dot! Can you hear me?"

"Dot, sweetie!" Mrs. McNeese cried breathlessly. "Cry out! Scream! Do something!"

Ed stared at the wreckage, feeling the loss of his alchemy sorely at this point. "Shit!" he hissed. "The lanterns could have broken down there and the fuel caught on fire!"

"Oh, dear God, no!" Mrs. McNeese breathed.

Dr. McNeese turned to Ed with an angry, horrified look. He leaned down to try to grasp at a chunk of rubble. "Help me move these damn things!"

"No, wait a minute!" Ed looked around the site to find Alex Armstrong. The major had been helping with carrying the crates of books up to the surface. He couldn't see him anywhere and was about to call out his name when he caught a familiar blue flash out of the corner of his eye. Ed instinctively hauled the McNeeses out of the way as a perfectly formed opening, complete with steps and Ishvalan carvings, transmuted before them.

Ed stared at the opening, expecting to see the major emerge into the sunlight. The transmutation had a definite Armstrong flair to it. But it was Dot, supporting Bozidar, who came up the steps, followed by the other dig workers who had been caught in the chamber. Around her hands were a set a silver gauntlets etched with an alchemical array.

Dr. McNeese rocked back on his heels, gazing in disbelief. "Dorothea!"

Dot grinned up at him, waving one gauntleted hand. "Hello, Dad! Mum! No worries!"

"No worries?" Mrs. McNeese repeated incredulously. "You could have been dead down there as far as we knew!"

"This young woman was remarkably level-headed," Bozidar said a little weakly. He was bleeding from a gash on top of his bald head. Ed helped him maneuver the rest of the way up the steps and eased him to the ground. Bozidar raised his hand to gesture at Dot, who was making sure everyone was accounted for as they emerged. "When the earthquake began, the first thing she did was slip on those metal gloves and create a barrier out of the very earth! Two of the lanterns had broken and caused a fire, but she doused them by making a wave of dirt." He shook his head in amazement. "As soon as the quake stopped, she created an opening in a matter of seconds." He gave a soft, weak laugh. "We were never in any danger."

Dr. McNeese dropped to sit on the top step. He pushed back his hat, wiping his forehead, laughing weakly with relief. "You've been holding out on us, sweetpea."

Dot lifted her shoulders a little sheepishly. "Surprise!"

Mrs. McNeese laughed and pulled her daughter into a hug. "You clever girl!"

"My dear cousin!" Alex came striding up, shirtless, of course, and snatched Dot from her mother's arms, lifting her off her feet in a massive hug. "A masterpiece! The art has been passed down to yet another generation! I am gratified!"

Dr. McNeese blew out a weary breath and looked around. The camp was somewhat the worse for wear. Tables were tipped over, artifacts were scattered on the ground, some cracked, broken, or otherwise damaged, but there didn't yet seem to be any serious injuries. "That was a very peculiar earthquake," he remarked. "They don't just stop like that."

"Yeah, it was—" Ed drew in a quick gasp. Bozidar seemed like he was going to be fine, so Ed scrambled to his feet and rushed off. He ran across the ruins, hopping from stone to stone in his haste, until he reached where he had left Scar. There he was, smack dab in the middle of a big circle, right where Ed figured he would be. That bastard!

He was sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them, his head bowed. Mitya and Danika were sitting on either side of him, watching him with anxious, stunned faces. They looked up silently as Ed approached. Scar lifted his head.

"When I was a young man," he said, his voice laced with fatigue, "an old woman read my tea leaves. She told me that a circle would somehow figure in my life."

Ed scoffed quietly. "Ya think?"

"Well, I thought it already had."

The two teenagers were looking grave and mystified. "Is everyone all right?" Danika asked.

"I think so." Ed looked at Scar. "I didn't get back to the chamber in time, but they got out all right." He grinned. "Thanks to some Armstrong alchemy."

Scar nodded and looked at the two kids. "Will you both go ask Dr. McNeese if you can be of help?"

Danika was understandably reluctant. "Are you going to be all right, Papa?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Scar assured her.

The girl still didn't move. She gazed at him somberly. "Papa, what did you do?"

Scar turned to look at her, his head propped on his hand. "What I had to, _laleh_."

"The people," Mitya said, his brows knit with worry. He pointed toward the west. "Back in Ishval!"

"Mama!" Danika breathed, horrified that she had nearly forgotten. "Papa, we have to get back!"

"We will," Scar said. "I need to sit for a few more minutes."

Danika still didn't want to leave her father's side.

"It's okay, kids," Ed told them. "I'll stay here with him. You go see if you can help out. There's kind of a mess back there."

Danika and Mitya finally got up and headed back to where the others were, looking back over their shoulders at Scar. When they were far enough away, Ed gave Scar a shove against his shoulder. "You son of a bitch!"

Scar closed his eyes. "You can keep my mother out of this. She was a good woman."

"So much for your academic interest!" Ed shoved his fingers through his hair and kept them there for a moment. "Damn! Damn!" he muttered. He dropped his hand. "Okay. I get it."

Scar looked at him with a vague frown. "Get what?"

"Why you're so stingy about your alchemy. If you can stop an earthquake, you—well, probably not you—someone could use your array to start an earthquake!" Ed gave Scar a grim look. "They could hold a small country hostage."

Scar gave a quiet, weary laugh. "That crossed my mind. I'm glad it crossed yours." He drew in a long, steadying breath and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes again and was silent for a few moments, then he said, "I'm sorry I tried to kill you, Edward."

Ed stared at him, startled. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"From a sense of humility. From a sense of having come in contact with something so much greater than me that it could only reveal a small portion of itself. And even that was obscured, as though to glimpse any more would be more than I could bear."

"Uh…not sure I'm following you."

Scar held his hands up and considered his palms, then the tattoos on his arms. "I'm not sure myself. I just hope I never have to do anything like that again."


	28. Chapter 28

"Is the river still running? I don't want to have gone through all that work for nothing."

It was said half in jest, but it had crossed a lot of minds.

"Yes, Brigadier," Miles replied. "The Halik is still with us."

The telephone lines were down, so they were communicating by radio, just like the old days before Ishval was on the grid.

"The damage is considerable, but it could have been so much worse," Miles went on. "Like I said, the quake was violent but brief."

"Any aftershocks yet?"

"I think there has been at least one. Some of the men have said they felt more, but it could be their imaginations. We don't have any equipment to measure tremors."

"That's something to look into," Brigadier General Mustang mused. "A little bit like locking the barn door after the horse has bolted, though."

"As long as the barn is still standing," Miles added. "The _khorovar_ has called for an emergency council of the district chieftains, the _tagma_ , my military police, and the clergy to create a province-wide network to assess the damage and see to the needs of the citizenry. I'll be relaying reports to you and to Central as soon as I get them."

"Good." Miles could hear release of tension as Roy let out a long breath. "I want to make sure disaster aid is sent out as soon as possible."

"Thank you, sir." Miles smiled a little. "But you know, Ishvalans aren't strangers to roughing it. When we first got out here, we had no electricity or running water or telephones."

Mustang was silent for a few moments, and Miles realized he had touched a nerve that was still a little tender, even after all this time.

"I mean to say, Brigadier," he added in a tone that reflected how he understood, "that we're a resilient people, but we still trust you to be the first one to come to our aid."

"Thank you, Colonel Miles," Mustang replied, an appreciative warmth in his voice.

* * *

It came to Mitya as no surprise that a man who could stop the earth from quaking could set an entire province into motion with such practiced ease. Or at least, he made it look easy. During the drive back, the three adults, _Zhaarad_ Andakar, Major Armstrong, and Edward Elric kept up a rapid discussion on what was to be done. That is, _Zhaarad_ Andakar seemed to be thinking out loud and the others agreed with or remarked on what he said. Major Armstrong floored the accelerator and he didn't slow down until they reached the fort. _Zhaarad_ Andakar jumped out of the car before it had even come to a full stop, and he rushed to meet Colonel Miles and his adjutant. Mitya and Danika stayed in the car while the adults conferred quickly with each other. There was some damage to the fort, as far as Mitya could see, cracks in the walls and broken windows. There was an atmosphere of controlled excitement everywhere, a lot of animated discussion.

"I hope Mama and everybody is all right," Danika breathed quietly.

Mitya certainly hoped so as well. He hoped they would not be here long. But soon _Zhaarad_ Andakar and the others were heading back to the car even as the colonel began to call out orders to his soldiers. As they got closer to Ishval Proper, _Zhaarad_ Andakar had Major Armstrong stop several times so he could get out and talk to any people they passed by. He asked questions and answered them, issuing urgent instructions and generally reassuring and calming everyone. At each stop, the fear and anxiety in everyone's faces faded away to relief as soon as the _khorovar_ appeared.

Following the network of access roads, they finally made their way back to Kanda. Major Armstrong dropped them off and then headed back to his parents' house. They walked the relatively short distance from the closest access road to Jasmine Court, where they found everyone gathered outside.

"Andakar!" Rada called out, running toward him. He swept her up in his arms and held her tightly for a moment, then bent down to gather up his younger children. They had appeared calm at first but had gone tearful once they saw their father was safe.

Rada grabbed Danika and Mitya together in a tight hug. "Thank Ishvala!" she cried. "I've been frantic with worry!"

"Is everyone all right?" Danika asked.

Rada nodded, stepping back and searching their faces. "And you two! Did you get hurt? What about the people at the dig?"

"They are fine," Mitya answered. "The people in the…library were…" He glanced at Danika for help.

The girl nodded and continued. "The opening to the library caved in and the people still inside were stuck there." She smiled. "But Zhaarana Dot made an opening with alchemy, and everyone got out!"

Rada let out a long sigh. "Well, let's hope that's the last time we have to go through this." She lifted her hands helplessly. "There's no electricity and the telephone isn't working, but those are things we can do without if we have to."

Mitya nodded. He was no stranger to power outages. They occurred in his old apartment block on a regular basis.

"We're going to cook dinner outside," Rada went on. She smiled at Danika. "It'll be like old times, like before our house was built."

After having made a quick inspection of the area, _Zhaarad_ Andakar joined them and gave his wife another hug. "I have to meet with Miles and the chieftains," he said. "I'm not sure how long it will take."

Rada tipped up her chin to receive a kiss. "Just be careful," she replied. "Do you think the house is safe enough to sleep in tonight?"

Andakar looked past her at his house and thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. It's better to be cautious."

"We could sleep outside," Danika suggested. "It's not too cold at night anymore."

Rada waved her hand. "We'll think of something."

"I'll leave it to you then," Andakar said, moving away.

Mitya hesitated as Andakar walked past him, then he spoke up. " _Zhaarad_ Andakar! May I…come with you?"

Andakar paused, a little surprised, and he considered the boy thoughtfully for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes, you can come."

Mitya beamed, feeling excited and a bit nervous. He turned to Danika, who was watching him with a curiosity that was a little anxious. "I want to see how _Zhaarad_ Andakar…" He frowned for a moment, trying to think of the word. "Upravlyat'," he murmured to himself, wishing he had his dictionary with him.

"Govern?" Andakar suggested.

Mitya looked up at him and nodded. "Yes! Govern! I want to…learn from you."

Andakar studied the boy's face with a look of understanding, mingled with a brief hint of sadness. "Then I hope I can be a good teacher."

"I hope I can be a good…student," Mitya replied.

Andakar smiled and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. "I'm sure you will be."

* * *

Mitya braved the questioning looks from the others gathered at the _khorovar's_ headquarters. One of them, Stanno, the chieftain of Kanda, openly asked Andakar, "What's he doing here?"

"He's observing," Andakar replied curtly.

Mitya took up a position in the corner of the room and listened intently. The discussion was a mix of Amestrian and Ishvalan, and he caught most of it. But what he paid greater attention to was the different attitudes and body language of those present. Andakar dominated the proceedings, but addressed everyone as equals. The others respected the _khorovar's_ position of authority but did not hesitate to speak out, either in agreement or otherwise. Andakar listened to what they had to say and replied accordingly. If any discussion started to stray from the subject at hand, Andakar would steer it back.

The bulk of the meeting had to do with the reporting of damage across Ishval and the prioritizing of necessary repairs. Notes were recorded by Sergeant Benjamin to be passed on to Brigadier General Mustang, whom Mitya had met at Danika's birthday celebration. The Brigadier would then organize any necessary disaster relief from outside Ishval.

Mitya was well aware that, comparatively speaking, Ishval was not a big place, and this handful of people was sufficient for the orderly and systematic running of the local government, even in a disaster situation like this one. Ishval was only a small part of Amestris, which was itself dwarfed by several of the surrounding nations, Drachma chiefly among them. Mitya had no idea when or even if he would take up whatever role he would be called upon to fill when he was returned to his homeland. He had no particular illusions about being treated with the sort of respect afforded to _Zhaarad_ Andakar. But when he did step into that role, he was determined to earn that respect, and he was determined to learn how.


	29. Chapter 29

Mitya's blows were beginning to sting, and his strikes were coming faster. They caused Scar no discomfort, as he assured Mitya, but he was still impressed, even without comparing the boy to what he was like when he first arrived in Ishval. He had started out as a scrawny hatchling. Now he could even be considered a fully-fledged young hawk, ready to spread his wings.

Which was exactly what he seemed to be preparing for. The thought gave Scar a sudden twinge of sadness, enough to break his concentration, allowing Mitya to land a sharp hit on his solar plexus.

Mitya froze in alarm as Scar gasped for breath. "I—I'm sorry, _Zhaarad_ Andakar! I did not mean to—"

Scar held up his hand and managed to draw in some air. "No, Mitya." He sucked in another breath, almost laughing. "You should—you should be proud of yourself."

Mitya still watched him with concern. "If you say so," he said doubtfully. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Scar assured him, breathing easier. "Trust me, I've had worse."

They could now easily converse in Amestrian. Mitya had studied diligently, immersing himself in the language, learning it well and becoming more talkative as a result. It wasn't all that he had immersed himself in, either. He had graduated from basic training forms to actual fighting techniques, a simplified version of what Scar had studied during his days as a warrior priest. They were not meant to be taught outside the priesthood, but Scar was willing to make an exception in this somewhat exceptional case. These sparring sessions had become a regular feature of their day, as well as Mitya's physical training, which he woke up early for every day.

He was no longer so pale, although he tended to freckle a bit more than tan. He had shot up at least five inches since he first came. He was lean and sinewy now rather than skinny, and he was growing stronger and more agile as the days went by. And when he wasn't exercising or training, he was reading. His comprehension kept growing, although he always kept his dictionary close. Even his Ishvalan was getting better. Above all, he was strengthening his self-confidence, preparing himself to face whatever challenge he might meet.

As much as Scar hated to admit it, what Olivier told him was right. She had warned him about getting too attached. He had snarled at her, but her words had hit a little too true. It was going to hurt, and he would have to prepare himself for it because he knew it was inevitable.

Olivier had also warned him about Danika getting too attached. _Really_ attached, as she put it. He had always wanted to raise his children to be sensible, but how did you tell your daughter to prepare herself for a broken heart? Sometimes he wished he had left the boy in Miles' care after all.

But the days and the weeks went by with no word from Briggs. Most of the damage from the earthquake had been repaired and life had returned to normal. Summer came and went and the only time Mitya took a break from his diligent studying was when he succumbed to Ishvalan desert fever. He was bedridden for nearly a week, and Danika sat by his side for much of the day, reading to him and giving him kechua tea for his fever. Scar left them to themselves because he knew this time was precious to them.

School started again and Mitya attended class along with Danika and her friends. He was able to keep up with the other students and actually enjoyed himself. After school he would be upstairs with Scar's children, studying right along with them. They celebrated the harvest festival and Mitya said he couldn't think of a time when he had enjoyed himself more.

But there were times when Scar would find Mitya staring off into space, or more likely, some inward perspective. There was just a little dread mingled in that look, but it spoke more of a somber, resolute introspection. Scar had known one or two boys Mitya's age who had been forced to take on grave responsibilities. He did not doubt that Mitya was equal to the task, but it was a shame that he had to bear such a burden at all.

Then, on a day on the verge of winter when such thoughts were far from Scar's mind, the telephone at his house rang. More often than not, calls were for Rada or sometimes Danika, now that she was fifteen and had more liberty to socialize with friends. Scar could hear the hurried patter of feet and Danika's cry of "I'll get it!" from downstairs. The telephone stopped ringing and Scar went back to preparing his notes for the next chieftain's counsel. He sat at the table in the study and Mitya sat across from him, reading. He did not try to strain his ears to hear the telephone conversation; he waited to hear Danika come dashing up the stairs to ask if she could go visit with some friends, inviting Mitya to accompany her.

But the footsteps were slower than normal, not with the rush of youthful excitement. They were the measured tread of bad news, and even before Danika appeared at the study door, Scar knew why she was there.

"Papa," she said quietly. "General Armstrong is on the telephone." She looked just a little perplexed, perhaps because she didn't really want to admit to herself that this might be the day they dreaded.

Scar found himself having no doubt. He stood up from the table. He almost didn't want to look at Mitya, but he couldn't help meeting the boy's somber gaze. Scar nodded, a little distractedly. "Thank you, Danika."

He went downstairs and picked up the receiver. "General?"

"Hello, Governor. I'm sorry to bother you at home."

She had never called him either at his house or at the governor's office. Whenever she contacted Ishval, she called Miles. Her courtesy seemed misplaced and he felt a sudden surge of bitterness. "What do you want?"

"I need to talk to Dmitri," the general snapped back. "I would have asked for him, but your daughter answered the phone and I didn't want to upset her."

Scar drew in a deep breath to calm himself. "I appreciate that, General. But isn't that just postponing the inevitable?"

He heard a quiet huff. "Sorry, Andakar. The security of a nation can't hinge on a teenage girl's feelings." There was actual regret in the general's voice.

"No," Scar was forced to admit. "I don't suppose it does. May I ask what you're going to tell him?"

"I'd rather give it to him fresh without you putting your own spin on it. If you want to listen in on another line, you can, but only if you promise to not butt in."

"I don't have another line," Scar growled back. "I don't much care for this one as it is."

"Well, someday you're going to need to realize that the twentieth century is not your enemy. Let me talk to the kid."

Scar glanced toward the stairs in time to see Mitya descending the last steps. The boy's expression was calm and resolute; he had an idea what was coming. Scar held the receiver out to him.

"Do you mind if I listen?" he asked.

Mitya shook his head. "No, I do not mind." He allowed himself a little nervous grimace. "I would like you to."

Scar nodded and handed over the receiver, then leaned down a little as Mitya put it to his ear. The boy cleared his throat. "General Armstrong?"

"Mr. Otrepyev," General Armstrong greeted him. "Ah…how is your Amestrian?"

"It's…all right," Mitya replied cautiously.

"Well, then, we'll be able to accommodate Governor Ruhad." She raised her voice a little. "Can you hear all right, Andakar?"

Mitya held the receiver a couple of inches away from his ear. "Yes, I can hear," Scar replied.

"Good. Then we can get down to business," Olivier continued briskly. "Mr. Otrepyev, I've been approached by a couple of gentlemen who are very eager to meet you. They are part of the movement to put you on the throne. Do you understand?"

With his ear close to the earpiece, Scar couldn't see Mitya's face, but he could hear the boy's breathing grow a little more rapid. But he answered clearly and steadily. "Yes, I understand."

"Good." The general almost sounded impressed. "According to them, my agent, Cooper, was finally able to contact some of their group, and together, they have put a plan into motion."

"I remember Cooper," Mitya said. He swallowed, his throat sounding dry. "Does he…is he…" His voice shook a little but he mastered it. "Does he think it is a good plan?"

"You mean, is he confident?" Olivier asked.

Mitya gave Scar a quick, questioning glance. "Yes," Scar replied for him. "That's what he means." The same question had crossed his mind because he himself had very little confidence in this scheme.

"Agent Cooper did not come with these men," Olivier replied. "He stayed behind, they said, helping the group to gain more of a following. You apparently have a lot of supporters, Mr. Otrepyev, but they are, understandably, not anxious to come forward."

"N—no, they would not be," Mitya agreed.

"So you didn't learn this from your agent himself?" Scar asked.

"Not directly," Olivier replied. "But before Cooper left Briggs, we established code phrases for—" Scar could hear other voices through the receiver. Whoever it was, they spoke excitedly and loudly enough to be clearly heard, but Scar couldn't understand what they were saying. He had heard enough Drachmani to recognize the language, though. Oliver spoke briefly and curtly to them in the same language, and they went quiet. "Sorry about that," she continued. "As I was saying, we established code phrases for different outcomes. These men were able to give me the code to proceed with the plan, whether or not Cooper was with them. The fact that Cooper stayed behind to help actually gives me a bit more confidence. He has good organizational skills."

She spoke as though this were any other military operation in which she expected everyone to perform their role according to their orders. To her, that's all this was. It wasn't her family being torn apart.

But then she said in a tone that wasn't quite so severe, "I realize this is an enormous responsibility. We're talking about the difference you could make in the fate of your country and lives of your people. It's not going to be easy."

"What do you need me to do?" Mitya asked.

Scar was almost startled, not by what Mitya said, but by the determination in his voice. Olivier must have been taken somewhat by surprise as well. There was a pause before she spoke again. "Right…well, then. I'll be sending someone to accompany you to Briggs in a couple of days. In the—" She broke off again to make another brusque remark in Drachmani. She returned to the phone with a sigh. "These guys are practically chewing my leg off to talk to you, Mr. Otrepyev. Would you please say a few words to them?"

"Ah…yes," Mitya replied. "All right."

The next voice that came over the receiver was a man's, speaking excitedly.

" _Zhivi i zdrastvui, Dmitri Ivanovich! Slava tebe, veliki gosudar!_ "

Mitya listened with a slightly bewildered expression for a moment, but then replied in a polite tone. Scar stepped away from him. There wasn't much point now. He couldn't understand what was being said, and it seemed that Mitya had made up his mind some time ago.

Scar glanced at the stairs and saw Danika sitting at the top of the lower landing, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She met his eyes with bleak sorrow. Scar sighed and climbed the steps to sit beside her. He took one of her hands and clasped them between his own, knowing what she would be feeling but determined not to let her feel it alone. She sensed this and leaned against him, trying to draw comfort from him, even though there was nothing he could do.

After a few moments, he said, "Ishvala's will is a bendy road, _laleh_ , and we can't always see where it's going to lead us. But we have to trust in it."

"I know, Papa," Danika replied quietly.

* * *

"Long life and health, Dmitri Ivanovich! Glory to you, mighty sovereign!"

That was a little much. Mitya was surprised he didn't sing it. "Ah…thank you."

The man seemed to be somewhere between giggling and weeping. "This is…this is too…I've waited for this day for so long! We've all waited for this day, haven't we, Vanya?"

"Yes! Yes!" another voice chimed in. "This is such an honor, such a great honor!"

"I'm…glad you think so," Mitya replied, a little uncertainly. "May I ask who—"

"Oh! Forgive me, _gosudar_!" the second voice sputtered. "I was just so swept up—yes, yes—I am Ivan Mikhailovich Vorotynsky and my friend here is Vassily Ivanovitch Shuisky!"

The first voice, Shuisky, apparently, cut back in. "You see, _gosudar_? We share a patronymic, but of course that is far as the similarity goes!" He chuckled. "Ah, listen to me, Vanya! I sound like a school boy!"

"I feel like a school boy! I feel…excuse me…please…" the second voice, Vorotynsky, faded away and Mitya could hear sobbing.

"Ah, there, you must forgive my friend, _gosudar_! He's that overcome! I can barely hold back my own tears!"

"No, that's…that's all right." Mitya found the words of these two men almost comforting. He would have smiled if it weren't for the terrible parting he was going to have to face.


	30. Chapter 30

A suitcase sat on the floor of the train station. It was full of the possessions Mitya had accumulated during his stay in Ishval—the clothes that Rada had most recently ordered for him because he had outgrown the last set, as well as a few mementos and gifts others had given him. _Baata_ Zulee had knitted him a scarf of red and black stripes, somewhat reminiscent of a _chuva_. She had wrapped it around his neck and told him to stay out of mischief. Boys were always getting into mischief, she declared. But he was a good boy, she added, patting his cheek.

Rada had filled a basket with food for his journey. It was more food than he could eat by himself. He wasn't sure what he would do with it once he reached Drachma, but it would be the last of Rada's cooking he would taste until…he didn't know when.

He had long since outgrown the clothes he came in, except for his old overcoat, which fitted him now and which had been cleaned and repaired by Rada. The only other possessions he had brought with him from Drachma were the picture of his parents, now in a frame of carved _meskaa_ wood, and his _matryoshka_. He had taken it apart and the figures stood in a row on the table that he and Danika were sitting at. They had taken on attributes different from the characters they were originally meant to represent:

The Warrior. Strength, honor, and wisdom. These virtues were the embodiment of a great leader and they were all present in Andakar Ruhad. Mitya had learned so much from this man, who had inspired him to challenge himself and become something more than he ever thought he could be.

The Goddess. Rada was everything warm and nurturing and life-giving. She had ably filled the empty place that the loss of his mother had left. He would have her warmth as a remembrance once he reached the cold of the north.

The Minstrel. Shua had visited Ishval a few more times since Danika's birthday. He was like a whirlwind, stirring things up and starting a celebration for no reason at all. Life was an adventure, and there were always hidden advantages waiting to be discovered.

The Snow Maiden. General Armstrong had not visited Ishval again since Danika's birthday. Shua would sometimes grow a little wistful, as though part of him was missing. Since he seemed to feel that he needed to, he explained to Mitya that the general was not as cold as she let on.

The Heroine. Mitya lifted his eyes from the figurines to catch a glimpse at Danika. She had been quiet during the car ride to the station (Andakar hadn't even questioned whether she would come). Mitya had told everyone at their parting that he would do everything he could to come back someday, perhaps even as a head of state. Danika just smiled, not sharing in the general acceptance of this statement. She must have known as much as he did that this might be the last time they ever saw each other. The idea was so exquisitely painful that he couldn't even bear to consider it. That alone would spur him to succeed in his mission, to achieve enough power and influence to be able to return.

The Fool. Even this one had changed. The Mitya who had left Drachma would probably barely recognize himself as he was now. He had grown and he had learned and he had discovered. He had travelled and seen wonders. He could do thirty chin ups. He had seen a man stop an earthquake. He had seen impossible things become possible. He might still be a fool, but now his courage was less likely to fail him.

"You won't forget me, will you?"

Danika spoke quietly, but her words came to him as a shock. His knowledge of Amestrian failed him for a moment.

" _Nikogda!_ " he told her solemnly, unconcerned whether she would understand him. She probably would. " _Ya nikogda zabudu tebya!_ "

A sad little smile formed on Danika's lips. "I'll never forget you either."

He could not entertain doubts. People were relying on him, and he did not want to be a disappointment, either to the people who were waiting for him or—and more especially—the people he was leaving behind.

The two young people both gave a little start at the sound of a train whistle. Mitya took a deep breath to recover himself. He started to pick up the _matryoshka_ figures, and Danika helped him. She pulled the two halves of the Vasilissa figurine apart and was about to put the little Ivan Durak figure inside it. But Mitya took it from her fingers, only to hold it out to her.

"Keep this one," he said. He managed a smile, if not a brave one. "You can think of me."

Danika took the little figure with an almost reverent care. "Thank you!" she breathed. She curled her fingers around it protectively. "I'll take good care of it."

The whistle for the northbound train blew again, louder this time. Earlier, the southbound train had brought with it an officer from Briggs, Mitya's escort back. Mitya recognized him, recalling that his name was Liam. The officer was greeted warmly by Colonel Miles, who addressed him as Lieutenant Roach. The two of them had been sitting at one of the other tables, talking quietly and reminiscing.

Andakar, who had been standing off by himself, approached the two young people, having left them to themselves until now. He didn't say anything; the circumstances spoke for themselves. Mitya nodded and stood up from the table, picking up his bag and the basket. Andakar led the way outside, joined by Colonel Miles and Lieutenant Roach. Mitya and Danika followed them silently.

The train rolled up alongside the platform and came to a halt. Mitya set his baggage down and turned first to Andakar. There was so much he wanted to say, and he couldn't decide what to say first, and there would never be enough time. So he held out his hand. Andakar didn't exactly scoff at the gesture, but he ignored the hand and pulled Mitya into a tight embrace.

"Be a good leader to your people, Mitya," he rumbled quietly. "But remember that this will always be a home to you."

"I will," Mitya whispered back. "Thank you!" He put every ounce of heartfelt gratitude into those two words, and it seemed to encompass everything else he wanted to say.

He then turned to Colonel Miles. The colonel had not made a secret about his support of General Armstrong's agenda, but in spite of that, Mitya could only respect him for his integrity, not to mention his kindness. The two shook hands.

"Knock 'em dead up there, Dmitri Ivanovich," Miles told him.

Mitya scowled a little. "I don't want to knock anyone dead."

Miles chuckled quietly. "It's an Amestrian saying. It means impress the hell out of them."

"Oh," Mitya said with a nod. He could only hope to do at least that much. "I'll do my best."

"Then you'll do fine," Miles assured him.

Mitya knew that the colonel was not in the habit of giving idle compliments, but he also knew that neither of them held any overly optimistic illusions.

He then looked at Danika, who had been standing silently, her features schooled, and they regarded each other for a moment. He could not even put into words what he was feeling. He felt he ought to say something, but anything he came up with now would sound thin and was simply an awkward way to fill an awkward silence. He would like to think that they had reached a point where neither needed words to understand how the other felt. But he still felt that something else needed to be done, something that would take courage.

He stepped closer to her and took her gently by the shoulders and kissed her on the lips. It didn't occur to him that he didn't know what he was doing, but that wasn't the point. He could hear Danika take a quick intake of breath through her nose, but then he felt a returning pressure on his lips. After a few more seconds their lips parted and Mitya stepped back. A flicker of doubt, a ripple in the girl's carefully maintained composure, crossed her face as she gazed back at him. Mitya managed a small smile, which Danika returned as well as she could, and he finally turned away to pick up his bags and carry them onto the train.

After stowing his baggage and taking his seat, Mitya had to take one last look at Ishval and the people on the platform, despite knowing that it wouldn't make leaving any easier. He had to burn their images in his mind because it would be this warm land and the people in it and knowing that they existed and were thinking about him that would take the edge of his fear and loneliness. Yes, there may be people in Drachma who eagerly awaited his return and who professed their devotion, but no one would gather him in and make him one of their own as he had been here.

* * *

The drive back from the station was silent except for Danika's muffled sobbing. She had waved at the train as it pulled away north, and she had kept a brave, fragile smile on her face. But as soon as the caboose had passed them, she broke down and wept.

Benji had offered to drive them to the station, but Miles took this task on himself, using the shiny black staff car that was generally reserved for visiting vips. He did it because he felt he ought to, because he needed to be there, because it was his duty to see Mitya transferred into safe hands, because who knew where the kid was going to wind up when all was said and done. He was career military. He knew what needed to be done to keep a nation secure. But he drove back with a bad taste in his mouth and a knot in his stomach.

Andakar sat in the back seat, his heartbroken daughter bundled in his arms. Miles knew this would happen. They probably all knew this was going to happen. Danika's weeping was hard to listen to, but that was his burden to shoulder as well.

Still, Dmitri Ivanovich Otrepyev had definitely grown a pair since he left Drachma. It gave Miles just a little spark of hope for that kid.


	31. Chapter 31

The train ride north was going to be a non-stop trip, which suited Mitya. He was scared, but he was also anxious to get to Briggs and begin this venture. He tried not to analyze it too closely, fearing that he would realize just how insane it was. He could only take things a step at a time.

Lieutenant Roach engaged him in some light conversation as the trip began, remarking how Ishval seemed to be good for him. Mitya could only nod in agreement. He didn't really want to talk about Ishval, preferring to cherish its memory on his own. He was more anxious to hear about what awaited him at Briggs.

"Have you seen these men from Drachma?" he asked.

"Not real close up," Liam replied. "The general's got 'em tucked away. Briggs isn't a good place to wander around in if you don't know it real well."

Mita nodded. He could imagine that the Drachmans, despite their friendly intentions, were being kept under close watch, much like he had been during his time at Briggs.

"But I hear they're real excited to meet you," Liam added with a grin.

Mitya supposed that sounded good. Perhaps he actually had a warm welcome waiting for him in the frozen north.

It was a long trip, and Mitya slept fitfully when he was able to sleep at all. It was an actual relief when the train pulled into North City and they were able to get off it. Mitya put on his overcoat and the scarf Baata Zulee had made him. It was late fall in the north, and there was already a thick blanket of snow.

A car was waiting for them, and they were driven the rest of the way to Fort Briggs. Mitya tried not to dwell on the events of his last time here. Somewhere between North City and the fortress Uncle Alyokha was buried. He sincerely hoped that the old man would not have died in vain.

They reached Fort Briggs and went inside, greeted at the ground level entrance by a couple of soldiers. They walked through the grey, uniform maze of corridors into the heart of the citadel. Finally halting at a door that looked the same as all the other doors, Liam knocked sharply, the sound echoing. They heard a brisk come in called from inside.

Liam opened the door and nodded to Mitya. "Go ahead."

Mitya stepped into a room much like the one where he had been interviewed by the Drachman officials the last time he was here. For all he knew, it was the same room. As he entered, a uniformed figure with pale gold hair falling down her back turned around to face him.

General Armstrong's eyes widened with genuine surprise. The way she turned around suggested that she expected to see a shorter person standing behind her. Mitya supposed he had changed a great deal since she had last seen him. Not only was he taller, but he held himself differently, more erect, as Andakar had encouraged him to do.

The general recovered quickly and looked him up and down, giving an approving nod. "Well, looks like the desert agreed with you," she remarked.

"I suppose it did," Mitya replied. He looked her in the eye, which she seemed to approve of as well. "I hope, someday, to go back."

"You realize that even if all goes well, that could be a long time."

"I can wait."

A hint of an understanding smile pulled at the general's lips. It was then that Mitya noticed the two men on the other side of the room. They were unmistakably Drachman, the kind of shabby city-dweller from the communal apartments and the streets of the capitol. One was tall and stork-like, wire frame glasses balanced crookedly on his nose, melancholy even in his excitement. The other was shorter and stockier with a ruddy complexion, clutching his cap tightly in his hands. They both looked as eager as puppies that had been ordered to stay.

General Armstrong turned toward them and they perked up as though spying a treat.

"Let me introduce you to our friends," the general said, her tone slightly dry. She switched to Drachman. "Citizens," she addressed the two men. "As you are probably aware, this is Dmitri Ivanovich Otrepyev, last of the Stoyanov Dynasty." Her voice kept its dryness, as though she still had doubts. It hardly mattered anymore.

She had to step out of the way as the two men eagerly scrambled forward. They both thrust their hands out then snatched them away, opting to bow low and spouting there operatic greetings.

"Da zdrastvuyet! Zhivi I zdrastvui, veliki gosudar!"

Mitya felt neither mighty nor sovereign-like, and the men's effusiveness was embarrassing. "Please, comrades, this really isn't necessary."

The men straightened up, the one with the ruddy face looking even ruddier. They beamed at Mitya.

"This is such a—a—a propitious moment!" the taller one stuttered. "Such an honor!"

By his deeper voice, Mitya recognized him as Shuisky. Mitya gave him a small smile. "I look forward to working with you, Vassily Ivanovich."

Shuisky looked like he was about to cry. He turned to his companion and whispered, "Did you hear that, Ivan Mikhailych? He remembered my name! Such a great mind!"

The other man, Vorotysnky, by the process of elimination, nudged Shuisky. "Now you've spoiled it!" he hissed back petulantly. "You already said my name!" He grinned widely at Mitya and gave another bow. "I—I—I've been waiting for such a long time, gosudar! I can't believe this is really happening!"

Mitya found himself smiling. These two men reminded him so much of some of his neighbors, genial middle-aged men who made sporadic efforts to make the best of their situations but who would then lapse into lassitude. They would sit around in the communal kitchens and discuss pointless philosophies that wouldn't get them in trouble, or quote rhapsodically from officially sanctioned poets as though the words were their own. They would like to be thought of as men of action, but other than getting in the way of the women who were trying to cook dinners for their families, they were harmless.

It was a little hard to believe that two such men had taken such drastic and dangerous steps, especially on such a long shot as this cause. Mitya's heart swelled with affection for them.

They had been speaking Drachmani, and General Armstrong joined in along with them.

"Believe it, gentlemen," she said with a grim smile. "We're about to make history."

They spent the next couple of hours going over their next steps. The discussion was interspersed with Shuisky and Vorotynsky launching into lines of poetry that had nothing to do with what they were talking about.

_"Let us drink, dear old companion,  
You who shared my sorry start;  
Get the mug down and drown our troubles;  
That's the way to cheer the heart…_

Mitya could see General Armstrong's jaw set with impatience.

_"Sing the ballad of the titmouse  
Who beyond the sea was gone,  
Or the song about the—"_

"If you don't mind, gentlemen," she said tightly. "Could we please stay on task here?"

Shuisky looked sheepishly melancholy and Vorotynsky's ruddy complexion reddened even more. The shorter man stopped mid-stanza and clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Sorry!" he whispered quickly.

The plan as it now stood was for Mitya to return to Drachma with Shuisky and Vorotynsky. Shuisky explained that they had made a careful study over the past year to find a route that was least likely to risk discovery. The border was heavily patrolled, but the guards weren't always fully committed to their task, especially at night when they were cold, tired, and overworked. Agent Cooper had been absolutely invaluable in the regard, having moved back and forth across the border many times. The two Drachmans spoke of Cooper with something like reverence.

The next step was to smuggle Mitya into a safe location. Their network of supporters had labored tirelessly to find various places. The first was a basement in a small apartment building where one of their number was the building maintenance man. He was a quiet, dutiful man who didn't attract notice either by arousing suspicion or earning praise. Periodically, Mitya would be moved around to lessen the possibility of detection. This phase could easily last for many months, possibly even a few years. They would be in constant contact with Agent Cooper, who would be master-minding the operation.

It sounded like a dreary, soul-numbing existence, but Mitya knew it was necessary. This was hardly something that could be accomplished overnight. He would simply have to resign himself to it, placing his trust in these people who were endangering their lives for his sake. He could do no less than summon up the courage to equal theirs.

After much discussion, more digressions, and profuse wishes for peaceful slumber, Mitya was able to retire for the night. On his way to his room, he heard General Armstrong call his name and he paused.

She stepped up to him and studied him for a moment. "Holding up all right?"

Mitya gave a weary nod. "I'm all right."

She continued to search his features. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was, it didn't displease her. "You're to be commended for taking this step, Mr. Otrepyev."

He would have reminded her that he had no choice, but it wouldn't have been prudent.

"I realize it must have been difficult to leave Ishval," Armstrong went on, her brusque demeanor softening just a little.

He couldn't even put into words his exquisite sorrow, let alone share it with anyone, especially someone like General Armstrong. She might realize it, but she probably wouldn't really understand. "As I said, I'll go back some day," he replied simply. "I have to help my people first."

Armstrong nodded. "I'll let you get some sleep, then. You've got a long journey ahead of you in the morning."

It took him a while to get to sleep. He lay staring up into the darkness, listening to the dull hum of machinery from somewhere else in the fort. He knew he had to be rested, but he was almost afraid of what he might dream of. Would it be shadowy terrors of what was yet to come? Or would it be bittersweet memories of what he left behind?

Mitya gave a deep, weary sigh. "Ishvala," he whispered a little timidly. He knew that name had been invoked on his behalf several times. Maybe it was time he spoke up for himself. "I don't know what's going to happen to me. If…if You could help, I'd be grateful. Please take care of Zhaarad Andakar and Zhaarana Rada, and Mattas and Winry and Turyan and Timothy, and…and Danika…" He could feel the pinprick of tears sting his eyelids. No, he wasn't going to succumb to that. "Please don't let anything bad happen to them. And…and please let me see them again…someday…"

He fell silent. He'd said his piece. Any more would be presumptuous. He turned over and fell asleep in a matter of minutes, having placed his fate and that of those he loved into what he truly hoped were hands more capable than his.


	32. Chapter 32

The Drachmans, all three of them, left early that morning in a car that was at least twenty years old and possibly on its last journey anywhere. Olivier had a small side bet with Henschel as to how far they would actually get.

Olivier slowly turned to pages of the book Cooper had shown her, _Drachma Under the Old Regime_ , idly studying the rogues' gallery of the Stoyanov dynasty. She didn't see any resemblance between Mitya and his grandfather, the black sheep of an already checkered family. The kid did seem to have a bit more in common with his grandmother, who apparently had auburn hair as well, not to mention a little more on the ball than her wastrel husband. Looks like she actually managed to pass down a little of that ambition to her grandson.

The general propped her head on her hand and closed her eyes for a moment. This had to work. She had been through operations tougher than this, but it was her own life or the lives of her Bears on the line, not some sixteen-year-old kid who may or may not know what he was truly up against. She trusted the men under her command to keep that kid safe. But deep down in her stomach she felt a twinge of nervousness, something she rarely, if ever, experienced.

She was tempted to blame Shua for informing of her apparent habit of crying in her sleep. She hadn't wanted to know that. She didn't want to know that her subconscious was sneaking out of the house at night and getting into trouble.

Or maybe she was just getting old.

She closed the book irritably. She never let her heart, or her subconscious for that matter, get the better of her head. People died in battle, even in a cold war like this one. That was simply a fact of life. To grieve for them would be to dishonor the sacrifice they made. You drank to their memory and hoped for a death as brave as theirs.

She took the bottle of whiskey that was sitting on the table by her elbow and poured herself another shot. She raised the glass.

"Here's to ya," she murmured before throwing it back.

* * *

The sun rose yellow over the snow that stretched beyond the northern boundary between Amestris and Drachma. Thick green conifers shared the frontier with bare white birch trees. The road here was barely a road, at times nearly a cave as the fir trees towered on either side of it. Mitya recalled the desperate flight with Uncle Alyokha, so many months ago, marveling at his fear and bewilderment then.

He couldn't be afraid anymore. He couldn't even be simply resigned. Yes, his fate depended on others at the moment, but in the end, he was truly his own master. That thought gave him a measure of courage. He resolved to not simply be a puppet for someone else's agenda for power.

He was determined to deliver his country out of the clutches of tyrants. He would institute reforms. He would halt the frantic arms race, since Amestris would be their ally and their borders would be open. There would be trade, exchanges of culture and ideas. There would be the freedom to speak opinions without fear. They would produce food, not weapons. His people would be fed, employed, and safe. He actually started to feel optimistic, to see the tiniest speck of light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel. He found himself looking forward to meeting with Agent Cooper once more. He realized he was starting to enjoy the reaction people had at seeing how he had grown and changed, as though they had doubted that he could.

As they began their trip, Shuisky and Vorotynsky chatted excitedly up in the front seat.

"What an adventure this is turning out to be, eh, Vasilly Ivanych?" Vorotynsky sighed.

"The real adventure has yet to begin, Vanya!" Shuisky replied sagely. "It has yet to begin."

"That's true," Vorotynsky agreed with a quiet chuckle.

Eventually the conversation tapered to silence as the landscape slipped by almost hypnotically. Mitya dozed off in the back seat, the car engine's monotonous droning lulling him. He had one arm resting on the basket that Rada had packed for him. It would come in handy if they had the opportunity to stop and eat. He was happy to share with his two new found friends. They had probably never had such exotic food. He was sure they would enjoy it.

The stopping of the engine sound was what woke him and he sat up, blinking as he peered out the window. They had turned off the road and into a clearing. Shuisky and Vorotynsky were just climbing out of the car, and Vorotynsky turned to look into the back seat.

"Time to stretch our legs!" he announced cheerfully.

Mitya thought that was a good idea. It wasn't just the car stopping that had woken him up. He realized his bladder needed emptying and he got out of the car. The two men stood near the car, talking quietly with their heads close together, and they waved at him as he headed to the edge of the clearing. After relieving himself, he stood gazing to the north through the trees, breathing in the cold mountain air, quite a difference from the desert far in the southeast. He wondered if Danika had ever seen snow. Perhaps one day she and her family could even travel to Drachma. A state visit. The provincial governor of Ishval, an invited guest of the King of Drachma.

Mitya smiled to himself and shook his head. No sense in letting his imagination get too carried away just yet. The two men behind him seemed to have fallen silent, and Mitya thought this might be as good a time as any to open up his basket.

He turned around and found himself facing Vorotynsky, only a few feet away. He hadn't even heard any footsteps. The man's amiable expression was gone, his pale blue eyes that, only that morning, danced with jovial excitement, were now cold and hard. His arm was raised and in his hand was a gun. Mitya started at it for a moment. He recognized it immediately from the days when he swept the floor at the munitions factory. It was a Nagant M1895. Big Levko had once told him all about the revolver, how it was a real workhorse, sturdy, able to take abuse, and if anything went wrong with it, you could fix it with a hammer. It had been developed before the revolution, commissioned by King Mikhail and, ironically, used to execute him and his family.

The revolver had a suppressor attached to its muzzle. That made sense. The report of a gunshot would echo off the mountains and would be heard for miles, attracting unnecessary attention. Not that it really mattered. He would be dead and the two men would be long gone before anyone came to investigate.

Mitya probably should have been shocked, but he wasn't. He probably should have been terrified as well, and possibly felt a little foolish for not having anticipated something like this. But he kept his emotions in check for the moment. He breathed in slowly and deeply, willing his heartbeat to slow. Just as Andakar had taught him, he honed his focus to a hyperawareness of the man in front of him, on his weapon, on his eyes, his hands, his stance, and how he clearly believed he held the advantage.

"You're a stupid boy," Vorotynsky remarked casually. "You let people fill your head with nonsense and you actually think you can call yourself a prince. Well, _gosudar_ ," he sneered, "your reign has ended before it even began."

"Don't waste time making speeches," Shuisky drawled from where he stood leaning against the car. "Just get on with it."

"But I've waited for such a long time for this moment!" Vorotynsky adopted the tearful voice that had apparently fooled everyone. He grinned. "Agent Cooper held out for weeks, by the way, but we finally broke him. One day he just folded up like a badly made chair. We had, of course, relieved him of his suicide capsule. No easy way out for him."

"Where is he now?" Mitya asked, surprised at how calm he sounded.

"Now?" Vorotynsky shrugged. "In a hole somewhere, I expect."

Mitya couldn't afford to be angry. He could indulge in such things later, assuming he wasn't dead. "Why are you doing this here?" He flexed his knees very slightly, pressing his feet against the ground. "Why aren't you taking me the rest of the way into Drachma?"

"What for? To interrogate you?" Vortynsky sounded amused. "You don't know anything that we haven't told you. You're useless. You're worse than useless. You're a parasite. Your rat's nest of followers has been exterminated. No more precious resources are going to be wasted on scouring our glorious nation of the festering rot of the Stoyanovs. No, no, you're to die an ignominious death in the middle of nowhere, shot in the back as you try to run away like a coward. What the wolves don't eat, the crows will finish up."

"Vorotynsky, can we get on with it?" Shuisky groaned wearily.

"Indulge me, Vassya!" Vorotynsky called over his shoulder, keeping one eye on Mitya. Shuisky threw his hands up in exasperation.

"I'm not going to run," Mitya said simply.

"It hardly matters," Vorotynsky replied easily. "One way or another, you're getting a bullet in your back. You may as well start running." He grinned unpleasantly. "Who knows? Maybe you'll outrun my bullet!"

"No." It took some intense concentration to keep his heart from pounding and, despite what he said, start running. "I'm not going to run, and if you want to shoot me in the back, you'll have to make me turn around."

Vorotynsky frowned in irritation. He waved the muzzle of the revolver at Mitya. "You really aren't worth the trouble."

Mitya just lifted his shoulders, by all outward appearances relaxed. Inside he was summoning up a desperate courage.

Vorotynsky scowled at him for a moment, and then with an impatient huff, he strode up to Mitya and grasped him by the shoulder. With a swift, precisely aimed movement, holding nothing back as he would during all his weeks of training, Mitya rammed his fist squarely against Vorotynsky's solar plexus. As the man doubled over, gasping for air, Mitya drove his elbow down against the back of Vorotynsky's neck. He heard a crack and Vorotynsky dropped onto his face.

Mitya didn't pause to see just how much damage he had inflicted. Before Vorotynsky even hit the ground, Shuisky was running toward him, pulling another Nagant from his coat. This one had no suppressor. Shuisky pulled the trigger, but Mitya dove to the ground and the bullet sailed just over his head. Before Shuisky could fire again, Mitya spun on his hands, swinging his foot around to connect hard with the side of the man's leg. Shuisky's knee made a popping noise and with a cry of pain, he toppled forward.

Mitya rolled out of the way and back onto his feet in one fluid motion, and then he ran, as hard and as fast as he could. He and Andakar had sometimes raced along the sandy banks of the Halik, and as time went by, his stride lengthened and his endurance improved. That, of course, was in much lighter clothing and in a warmer climate. Mitya's chest ached as he breathed in the chilly air. It occurred to him that he should have disarmed the two agents, but he hadn't really thought that far ahead. He now feared that it might end up being a very costly mistake.

The bark of a nearby tree splintered as a bullet ripped across its trunk. Mitya hunched down and pushed himself to run faster, diving through the cover of a cluster of pines. This was definitely not a friendly race in a friendly land and, despite the training he had received, it wasn't quite enough. Another bullet sang past his ear. The terror that had given him such a burst of energy was now wearying him. His lungs burned and his vision was beginning to cloud. It would almost be a relief to get shot so he wouldn't have to run anymore.

Other forces conspired against him. He attempted to hurdle over the trunk of a fallen tree, and he knew he should have used his hands, but he just didn't get enough height and his foot caught on a rough, gnarled stump of a branch. He tumbled over the other side. He had the presence of mind to tuck in his head and somersault awkwardly back to his feet, and he kept running, but he could hear the crashing of Shuisky's limping strides and labored breathing behind him.

It was either get shot in the back, as had been the Drachman agents' plan to begin with, or turn and fight and very probably get shot in the front. It wasn't much of a choice, but it was all he had, and he wasn't going to give Shuisky the satisfaction of an easy kill.

Mitya skidded to a halt and spun around, his chest heaving, but taking a ready stance. Shuisky stumbled through the stand of trees and slowed, favoring his injured leg, but also cautiously appraising what turned out to be a formidable opponent ready to take the fight to him. They stared at each other for a moment. Shuisky, fortunately, was not a talker like his colleague. He simply began to raise his arm to aim his revolver. As he did so, Mitya leaped forward.

The report of a gun split the air, and Mitya braced himself to feel the punch of a bullet. At least, that's what he supposed it would feel like. He didn't feel a thing. He thought he should at least fall down, but nothing happened. Then Shuisky fell backwards.

Mitya froze and stared at the man, his long arms and legs splayed, the snow turning crimson under his head. The boy stepped carefully forward and could now see a neat hole in the middle of Shuisky's forehead. His dark eyes stared emptily up at the sky. Mitya turned away and threw up.

When he had retched up everything that would come out, he was desperately thirsty. He grabbed a handful of snow and took a mouthful of it, letting it melt. The echo of the gunshot had long died away, along with the rasping of crows that had been disturbed by the sound and had flown away. Now, except for Mitya's choppy, gasping breaths, it was silent all around. So it was surprising that when he finally heard the shushing sound of skis sliding along the snow, it was very close.

Mitya spun around, despairing at having to defend himself again. He almost didn't see anyone at first, but then, skimming through the pines and birches came a group of soldiers camouflaged in white. Their faces were masked and their eyes were covered with goggles. Long-range rifles were strapped to their backs, except for one, who carried a radio.

The one at the lead point slowed and gestured to the others, who fanned out, carefully scanning the surroundings. The leader then slid up to Mitya.

"Where's the other one?"

It took Mitya several moments to realize that the soldier was speaking Amestrian. The soldier pushed up his goggles and pulled the mask away from his mouth. "There was another one!" he insisted. "The short one! Where is he?"

Mitya looked back in the direction he had come, almost expecting Vorotynsky to come bursting out of the trees. Then he remembered the cracking sound the man's neck made. "He…he's back there somewhere. He might…" Mitya's voice came out sounding like one of the crows that had been startled away and he had to swallow hard. "He might be…knocked out…" Actually, it occurred to Mitya that he might be dead, but he didn't really want to consider that.

The officer shouted out some orders and pointed, gesturing to half of his men to proceed forward with caution.

Something else slowly and finally occurred to Mitya. He turned back to the lead soldier. "Did you…did you come after me?"

The officer smiled grimly. "That's right, kid. Soon as you left, our queen had us follow you."

Mitya stared at him, not quite comprehending. "Why?"

The officer looked at him as thought the answer was obvious. "Because she doesn't trust Drachmans as far as she can throw 'em. No offense." He took a canteen from his belt and took a swig of water. "You're pretty damn lucky, kid. Briggs' ski patrol ain't no slouches, but we really had to haul ass after you guys. Lucky your pals weren't in that big a hurry."

Mitya moved slowly and carefully to a nearby log and lowered himself down onto it, not trusting his legs to hold him up for much longer. He was having trouble processing what had happened, either because it was simply incomprehensible or because he was so exhausted in mind and body that he just didn't have the strength. In what was probably only a matter of no more than half an hour, his fate was turned completely and utterly around.

The officer handed Mitya his canteen, which he gratefully accepted, but other than that, he didn't talk or ask any Mitya any questions. He probably realized what a close brush with death the boy had had and didn't trouble him with conversation. After a while, the other soldiers returned and conferred quietly with their commander, some of them glancing in Mitya's direction.

The commander turned back to Mitya. "Looks like your buddies won't be making it back," he said with grim satisfaction. "We're gonna stuff 'em in their car and push it off a cliff about a mile or so from here. Make it look like they had an accident before they even got to Briggs."

Mitya nodded distractedly and the commander moved away. Then Mitya called after him. "Will you get my things? My bag and my basket?"

"Sure, kid. We'll take care of it."

"Thank you!" Mitya didn't say it very loud, but it wasn't any less heartfelt.


	33. Chapter 33

Olivier was more relieved than she was willing to admit.

Mitya sat slumped in a chair in her office, the stress and exertion of his experience having taken their toll. He held a cup of coffee in his hands, which were shaking slightly.

"I didn't mean to kill him," he murmured for about the third time. He fell naturally to speaking Drachmani and Olivier obliged him.

"I know you didn't," Olivier replied in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. The ski patrol who had brought him back were lauding him on doing such a neat job of breaking Vorotynsky's neck. "But it was either you or him. He certainly had no compunction about killing you in cold blood."

Mitya seemed unwilling to accept the comparison and dismissed it. He lifted his head, his eyes still bleak. "I'm sorry about Cooper."

Olivier's lips tightened. She had hoped for the best but always expected the worst. That alone was worth sending the ski patrol out after those bastards. "Cooper was the best at what he did. But beyond all expectations, the Drachmans were just that much better."

"Did you know?" Mitya could have sounded accusing, but he didn't. He didn't even seem to be cherishing some resentment hidden somewhere in the back of his mind. He just looked at her, and for a moment it felt like he looked right through her, as though he could see all her insecurities, all her hopes, all her ambitions. The impression disappeared immediately, but the boy's green-eyed gaze was still penetrating. He'd looked death in the face and he'd had his first kill and he hadn't enjoyed either one. It tended to change a person.

Olivier looked away and went to sit at her desk. Complete honesty was called for. "Yes. I knew something was wrong," she admitted. "The code that the Drachmans relayed to me was not what they thought it was." She allowed herself a thin smile. "Cooper's last act of defiance. The man always planned for every contingency and he had a code for it. He managed to let me know that something was wrong. He'd been compromised and whoever delivered the message to me was not to be trusted." Her smile faltered. "The only thing he couldn't communicate was what actually happened to him, although I had a good guess."

"I'm sorry," Mitya said again.

"It's not your fault. At least you confirmed what I thought had probably happened, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop apologizing."

The barest hint of a smile flickered around the boy's mouth and vanished.

Olivier took a deep breath and moved on. "I knew what was likely to happen, but I wanted to catch them at it. And before you say anything, I know it was a big risk," she added brusquely. "I deliberately put you in danger."

"I wasn't going to say anything," Mitya replied. "I was in danger anyway."

Olivier began to feel something that she rarely felt about anyone who was not one of her Bears. She was just a little bit in awe. "You're a remarkable young man, Dmitri Ivanovich Otrepyev. You have a lot to be proud of."

Mitya returned her gaze somberly, again with the penetrating look, this time laced with pain. "People died because of me. I have nothing to be proud of."

Oliver sat forward and pointed at him. "Those people were willing to give up their lives for an ideal. They knew what they were getting into. Even you did. If you want to blame anybody, blame me."

Mitya shook his head. "I couldn't do that. I'd be dead too if it weren't for you. You were doing what you thought was best."

He was being almost insufferably gracious. Olivier would have preferred having him yell at her. Then she could yell back. It would loosen the uncomfortable knot in her chest.

It was too damn close. They almost lost him.

Mitya sat up, moving like his head was too heavy to lift. "Do you want me to try to go back?" His voice was tinged with exhaustion and resignation.

Olivier managed to not flinch. It sounded like something she would do. She hadn't even gotten as far as thinking about that yet. When she did, she realized that she didn't want to be the one to make that decision.

"Do you want to go back?" she asked in reply, hating herself for it. She tried to clean it up a little. "Is it worth it to you to try again?"

Mitya closed his eyes and was silent for a few moments. "If I…if I truly thought there was a chance…if I truly felt I could do something to make a difference, I would." He grimaced as though in pain. "But I don't want anyone else to die for my sake. I'll never even know how many people already have. People I've never even met! I don't want to be the cause of that! I know that sounds selfish and it makes me sound like a coward—"

Olivier brought her hands down on the top of her desk. "You are not a coward!" she declared almost angrily. "You did a hell of a thing walking straight into that snake pit! You knew you might not come out of it right side up but you went anyway! So quit your whining!"

Mitya looked at her cautiously, surprised at her outburst. She sat back, letting out a huff of air, considering the matter more coolly, drumming her fingers against the desk top. "I don't want to waste any more manpower or resources on this project," she growled finally. "I plan to make that clear to the Fuhrer when I make my report."

"Then…what's to become of me?" He didn't sound scared. He sounded like he wanted to find out whatever was in store for him and resign himself to it.

Olivier's lips twisted a little wryly. "Honestly, if you were a few years older, I'd take you on here at Briggs. I think you'd be a hell of an asset."

That really took him by surprise. He seemed to realize what a compliment it was, but he didn't seem thrilled with the idea. Olivier propped her elbows on her desk and folded her hands together. "How about you tell me what you really want" As if she didn't know.

* * *

"So…no coup, then?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid not."

"Ah, well, I guess it was worth a shot." Grumman tossed it off as if a trout had made off with his bait. "Something else will come up, I'm sure."

Olivier rolled her eyes. _Yeah. Right. I can tell you're all over that_. "In the meantime, Sir, I would like to recommend offering permanent asylum to Mr. Otrepyev. It's quite obvious that he can't return to Drachma without serious threat to life and limb. Plus, he's earned it."

"Yes, I suppose he has," Grumman replied, sounding like the subject made him tired. "Have him get in touch with Immigration Services to get all the proper paperwork, you know, applications for asylum, Form I-589 or I-598 or something. I forget what else. I suppose he's an unaccompanied minor."

"I'm sure he'll manage. He's not dumb and he's not without friends."

Grumman chuckled. "Then it sounds like he's got everything anybody could want!" He let out a sigh. "Still it would have been a real feather in my cap to go out with a bang like that."

Olivier frowned. "Go out?" _Are you really retiring this time, you ancient turd? And—excuse me—_ your _cap?_

"Yes, yes. I know the voters will be clamoring for me to run one more time, but I'll just have to break their little hearts." Grumman chuckled. "You might want to start dusting off your people skills, General Armstrong. You might even get nominated."

* * *

Scar was so relieved tears nearly came to his eyes. Then he got a little angry.

"She knew what would happen?" he demanded incredulously. "And she handed you over to those men anyway?"

He could hear a little weary sigh on the other end of the call. "She wanted…uh…proof. She wanted to…to catch them off guard."

"You're the one who caught them off guard, Mitya," Scar reminded him. "She still could have simply kept them at Briggs and interrogated them."

"Don't…don't dwell on it, _Zhaarad_ Andakar." Even though his Amestrian was still not that fluent, Mitya spoke with a gentle authority that took Scar a little by surprise. "It did what she meant it to do."

Scar could only accept his words, mainly because of the subtle change in Mitya's voice. There was a new wisdom there. Scar knew very well that facing death was a life-changing experience that either made or broke a person. Well, then, let it be. "Even so," he mused with a smile, "you would have been great."

Mitya laughed quietly. "I do not want to be great. I don't think that is for me." He paused and added, "You are…you are the one that…" Scar could hear him murmuring to himself as he searched for the right words. "…that I really owe my life to. You taught me to fight."

Scar rubbed his forehead uncomfortably. It was disturbing to realize that the bit of simple training Mitya had received had actually been put to practical use. It could have gone so very badly. He could only be thankful that Mitya was such an attentive student. "I'm very, very glad, Mitya."

The young man paused, then asked quietly, "You had to kill in the war? With your fighting?"

"Yes, I did," Scar answered. For him, the war took a longer time to end than for others, and he used much more than just his warrior-priest skills, but he didn't mention that.

"How…how do you…" Mitya's Amestrian vocabulary failed him.

"How do you live with that memory?" Scar finished for him.

"Yes." There was gratitude as well as pain in the boy's voice.

"I won't lie to you and tell you that it will be easy," Scar told him gently. He knew very well that some regrets never completely went away. "You will remember what happened for a long time, but in time it won't be so painful. You must be patient with yourself. And don't keep it all inside you. If you want to talk about it, I am here to listen."

"Yes…thank you…" the young man mused, possibly already trying to process his experience, wondering how it would affect the rest of his life.

"So, then, what will you do now?" Scar asked, hoping this would be a more optimistic subject.

"Ah. Yes. There is…there are…ah…legal papers…" Mitya replied. "I must…submit a…applications," he said slowly. "I must…" There was the sound of some papers being shuffled. "I must apply for asylum and speak to an asylum officer." He sounded like he was reading something, then added, "General Armstrong said that did not happen when I first came."

"Because she brought you straight here. Hm! She's very good at doing things that aren't legal," Scar remarked dryly. "But now you must go through a process?"

"Yes. And then…" More papers were shuffled. "I will…either become a ward of the court or I must find a…foster family."

That was what Scar wanted to hear. "Then look no further. You know you will always have a home here. Just let me know what I need to do."

"I will!" Mitya sounded much happier at that prospect.

* * *

It still turned out to be a somewhat lengthy procedure. There was a lot of waiting for documents to be processed and bureaucratic red tape to unravel. Mitya had to appear before the asylum court in North City. General Armstrong used some family connections to get him a good lawyer, and he had several positive discretionary factors in his favor, so his petition was as good as assured.

At the other end of this process, a representative from an Amestrian foster agency came out to Ishval to interview Scar and his family. When she found out who she was going to be seeing, she was rather nervous. It didn't help that Scar thought this whole thing was ridiculous, considering Mitya had spent many months here already and no one had questioned the suitability then and considering Amestris' history with refugees tended toward internment camps and slums, why were they going through all this fuss now and—

Fortunately, Rada made it quite clear well beforehand that Scar was under no circumstances to be anything but pleasant and courteous to the nice lady and that he was to say "yes, _Zhaarana_ " and "no, _Zhaarana_ " and "would you like some more tea, _Zhaarana_ " and to generally act his age and maintain the dignity of his position and not bring disgrace on their family.

Scar was nice to the lady and didn't scare her more than he did anyone.

* * *

When the train pulled into Ishval station, Scar stepped back and let Danika be the first to welcome Mitya home. Their embrace was suitably chaste, but it was fiercely tight and long. When they released each other, they each took a step back and looked into each other's face, their hands clasped. They didn't really need to say anything to each other, but a lot was communicated. They had borne their separation as bravely as they could, not daring to believe that this moment would ever happen, but cherishing a tiny, hidden grain of hope that it would.

Olivier also stepped down from the train, and Shua's welcome would have been a whole lot less chaste if he'd had his way.

Finally, Mitya turned to face Scar, looking up at him with a tired but grateful smile. "I'm not a prince. I'm just Mitya."

Scar pulled him into a hug. "And that is enough."

* * *

K'shushi scrambled into Mitya's room before anyone else and jumped on the bed and barked. He had gone nearly berserk with joy when Mitya walked into the house. He howled and barked and knocked Mitya down and licked him frantically. It was going to be a long time before the dog calmed down.

Mitya set his bag on the bed as the other children crowded into his room. He gazed around the room. The window was open, letting in the crisp desert air. He could smell the clothesline-dried freshness of the bedding and there was still a hint of the scent of fresh wood. These things were not his imagination, but he could barely believe he was back. He still wasn't quite used to not having the dread of uncertainty hanging over his head. This was for good. This was really home.

He turned to smile at Mattas. "I know you wanted this room. I'm sorry."

Mattas shrugged easily. "That's all right. It's better having you back."

Winry gave her twin a nudge. "You still whined about it," she muttered.

"I did not!"

"Shh! You, too!" Danika flapped her hand at K'shushi. "And get off the bed! I just finished making it tidy!" K'shushi jumped down, then jumped back up. With a sigh, Danika gave up and beamed happily at Mitya. "As soon as I heard you were coming back I cleaned everything in here. Oh! Here!"

She put her hand in the pocket of her skirt and took out the little wooden figure of Ivan Durak. She held it out, resting on her palm.

Mitya smiled. He opened up his bag and took out his matryoshka. He opened it up, laying each figure on the bed, waving a hand at K'shushi's nose as the dog sniffed them. The warrior, the goddess, the snow maiden, the minstrel, the heroine. He set the smallest figure next to them, the fool maybe not such a fool after all.

"There!" Danika said with satisfaction. "They're all together again!"

Mitya turned and grinned at her. "And so are we."

* * *

Shua drifted awake, although it was still dark. He figured he'd fall back asleep easily enough. He was in his son's house, his lovely bride was asleep beside him, and all was right with the world.

Then he heard a soft sound just to his left and he turned his head. He didn't hear it that often, but when he did, he usually just lay there and listen until it stopped, feeling sad and a little powerless. This time, though, he was going to do something about it.

He turned and leaned closer to Olivier. "Ollie!" he whispered. He lay his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little nudge. "Ollie- _laleh_ , wake up!"

Oliver drew in a shuddering little gasp. She turned her head and mumbled groggily. "Whuh…what?"

"You were crying, sweetheart."

Oliver was silent for several moments and Shua wondered if she had fallen back asleep. He leaned closer to see if her eyes were open. "Ollie?"

"I heard you," she grumbled. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and sniffled. After another few moments, she muttered, "Damn it!"

"You told me to wake you up," Shua said, propping his head on his hand.

"Yeah, I know."

"So that's what I did."

"I _know_!"

"Just saying…"

Olivier let out a long, slow breath.

"You want to talk about it?"

She didn't answer at first, but then she spoke, her voice low and reluctant. "I guess I was dreaming…about Cooper. I think Buck was in there somewhere…I don't know…dreams are weird that way…"

Shua was tempted to remark that he ought to be the only man she dreamed of, but now wasn't the time. He stayed quiet and let her continue.

"I was searching for them all around Briggs." She sniffled again. "I couldn't find them, and everybody I asked just looked at me like they were keeping something from me." She paused. "I…couldn't find them…"

She brought her hands up to her face and was very still. Shua could tell she was fighting what was trying to well up.

" _Laleh_!" Shua put his mouth close to her ear and whispered with a tender coaxing. "Go ahead and let it out. It's only me here, and you know I won't tell tales, not when it counts."

Olivier was still for another few moments. Then she abruptly turned and put her arms around Shua, gripping him fiercely and trying to muffle her angry, heartbroken sobs against his chest. Shua held her and stroked her hair and let her grieve for all the deaths she kept on her conscience, whether she should have or not. Shua knew, better than anyone, even Ollie's mother, what a generous heart this woman had but kept hidden from the world. This woman had to stay strong so the men around her wouldn't fall apart, but in exchange she had nowhere she could go to fall apart and then put herself back together.

Ah, no, that wasn't true, not any longer. She was in that place now, and Shua was more than happy to offer it.


End file.
